Wings of Crimson Glory

 In the land of angels
with alabaster feathers and skybound grace,
there lived a girl
who whispered of wings
she did not have.

 She was far past the age of flight,
feet sunken in earth,
shoulders bare,
but she spun silver lies
about blinding brilliance—
how her wings were too bright
to be seen.

 When others soared,
cutting clouds with effortless ease,
she stood still,
roots tangled in stories:
myths of glory
built from longing.

 They nodded,
some out of kindness,
some out of boredom.
A few called her bluff,
but most looked away,
eyes glazed with pity.

 And then—
years later—
wings did come.
Not white.
Not pure.
But searing red,
glossed with sheen and shame.

 She froze.
Red wasn’t holy.
Red was loud.
Red was war.

 So she cloaked them—
under wolf-pelt coats,
under night-black leather—
and walked everywhere
as if made of stone,
never sky.

 Until one day,
on a jagged mountain edge,
a child slipped.

 She didn’t think.
Didn’t calculate
the cost of truth.
She leapt.
She flew.

 Her red wings tore the wind,
and she cradled the child
like a second heartbeat.

 Gasps followed.
Whispers trailed.

“I thought her wings were white.”
“I thought she had none.”
But louder than rumour
came the truth:
“She saved a life.”

 No one asked
why she lied.
No one cared
about the hue of her feathers.

 Only that she flew
when it mattered.

 And the girl?
She wept—
not from shame,
but release.

 She used to tell stories
to stitch herself
into a sky she couldn’t touch.
Now she soared in silence.

 Not a fraud.
Not a fake.
A believer.
A dreamer.
An angel,
at last,
in her own color.