ANGELS {part 1 of 3}

I once saw myself flying; but I guess it's called dying. Scatter my feathers and then stitch them all back. The wings are paralasis in worlds full brick walls and windows of reflection that show lies. We are all gonna die, try not to scream inside. The faces of vision mixed with the collision leading to confusion. What do I do when I try to fly? Should I realize I'm breathing off of the oxygen that I am fed, or do I mix the prison with the maze inside my head? It is finding the venom, gathering every drip and drop, placing it inside of these immortal thoughts. They dont tell us we are dead because they know if they whisper truth someone can grab their wings and float. Because the fun is the prison with the roof and there's no room for angels, so therefore we die. In the world we have crafted, it's so blunt yet quiet.