The wings I draw right now are clay
from their syringe on mat they lay.
Layer upon layer, line upon line
I repeat the process so they will be FINE.
The dry time comes, all moisture must go
a time of denial and change my wings must know.
They will soon glow red with the flame from my torch.
A relentless controlled fire that will singe and scorch.
As flame burns impurities, the beauty that I see
brings tears as I think of how I hope the Lord sees me.
I accept the dry times and surrender to the flame.
Burn away my imperfections as I call upon your name.
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