I DREAM IN WINGS

At night, when the chains grow quiet, I close my eyes and grow feathers. Not the kind that birds wear— but the kind made of memories and soft rebellion. Deep in the dungeon, I close my eyes and hope— hope for a dream, for once: one where I’m free, one where I fly like the wind, one where I can’t be bound in chains. And ooh, it comes— like a messenger, it delivers hope to me. In this dream, I soar on the wings of freedom, I soar through the sky and over oceans of liberty, and I’m a master of my own fate. The air there tastes of mango blossoms, of rain falling where it wants— wild and without apology. I land in fields where no one owns the ground, where even the wind dances free. In this dream, my voice is not an echo in a box— it’s thunder, it’s riversong, it’s laughter rolling over hills. And when morning returns with its grey mouth and locked door, I hold the dream in my fist like a stolen key— warm, waiting, real.