My wings are made of many words,
And words, they build my wings
My skin, made of the blackest ink
To which paper feathers cling

Sentence upon sentence
Makes the beating of my heart
My mind, filled with fragmented thoughts
Of the whole, them just a part

My bones, made up of pages
Resolute and strong
Muscles made of clauses
Moving ever more along

My eyes are filled with chapters
Holding the entirety of my life
My ears, made of accusations
Cutting through me like a knife

But these worded wings, they carry me
Over mountains, over hills
Any emptiness that lie before
With more words it may fill

Oh, my wings, my word-made wings
Where would I be without?
Because my soul is made of writings
And through my wings I pour it out.