The wings hang low, no longer made for flight,
Feathers bent beneath the weight of love’s undoing.
Once woven from dawn and holy light,
Now edged in ash, softly smoldering, still glowing.

Each plume bears fire along its veins,
Charred prayers whispered into the dark.
Not burned by wrath, nor hellish chains,
But by a heart that shattered when love left its mark.

Smoke drifts upward with every breath,
A sigh of incense, sorrow, and loss.
Some feathers cling, defiant against death,
Others fall—blackened embers of what it cost.

These wings remember how heaven felt,
How devotion once taught them to soar.
Now they burn where eternity melted,
Proof that love can wound the divine to the core.