My Wings are of Midnight

My Wings are of Midnight. Not Blue, nor Black, but that colour between the stars and at the edge of the moon. Not a colour at all, really, but a Shadow, dense and alive. My Wings are of this Shadow, and I wrap myself in them to hide. 1

When spread, they are unnoticed by all those around. As Shadows so often are. Only when someone walks through their outstretched span do they provoke reaction. A grimace. A glare. A shiver of distaste. Those people who walk through my Wings of Midnight do not see them. Do not see my pain as they are pushed aside. And through. So I have learned to hold them close, tight furled about me. I protect them. As they protect me. 2

Over the years, the edges have blurred. Been smudged to translucency by neglect. This Shadow at my back has slowly faded in the harsh light of others' reality. On which I am but a passing shade. But, alone with the night, I know I am more. For the Shadow cannot exist without the Light. 3

Within the folds of my Wings lies the Light of the stars and the moon, for they are not merely of Shadow. My Wings are of Midnight. And, when the clock at last strikes my hour, I shall spread my Wings of Midnight and fly. To the stars. And beyond.4

My Wings are the face that I show to the world. I know this face is a dark one, but the world rarely bothers to look, let alone look deeper to find the bright Soul hidden by the darkness. My Wings are of Midnight, but my Soul is of Gold. 5

I do not mean to sound pretentious, or imply that my Soul is of great worth. I mean that it is heavy. And soft. And, when brought into the Light, comes ablaze like the sun. I feel it, molten and glowing, around my heart. Its warmth flows into my limbs, along the bone, always unseen. It brings life to what, for the naked eye, seems dead. 6

My Soul is not the gaudy Gold of a rich man’s coin or a socialite’s bling. My Soul is the Gold of a grandfather’s pocket-watch. Battered and bent. Scratched and worn. From being held. And dropped. And pressed back down deep into a breast pocket, against a beating heart. But its shine is not dulled, though I have never attempted to polish it. 7

I did not ask for a Soul of Gold, for it does not belong in a life such as mine. True, I believe that it has saved my life. It was the unexpected glint at the corner of my eye, which made me turn my head and redirect my steps back onto the footpath instead of into the road. And oncoming death. Something small, unimportant, and yet, somehow, beautiful. It was finding this treasure, seemingly lost – like an old watch, dropped – that gave me a second chance. But I know that this is borrowed time, so I will not spend it idly. 8

I keep this Soul of Gold safe, protected by my Wings of Midnight. I shall never waste it, or wind it up for gain. Now it is old and its time seems to run out. Every Tick has the dull finality of Tock. And every Tock falters, as though it will never chime. Yet it still does. Perhaps this Golden treasure awaits the day I shall find the one who misses it. When I shall, at last, give my Soul of Gold to whom it truly belongs. And receive, in return, their Soul that was meant for me.