Winged or Not?

Wings. I want them. To soar the skies.

I want to glide over tall trees

and the mountains old and wise.

The magnificent oceans and foamy seas.

But then, a thought strikes,

Those with wings are free

Dreams not bound by dykes

at leisure to choose, palpable glee.

Screech, dive, fly, twirl, float

their choice, theirs alone.

On a side note,

it's on them, let it be known

But then a thought strikes,

Those with wings can be caged

Too, And yikes!

Shackled is no place to dream, swagged 

by the cold metal of restraints

Wings crooked and painted in rusty taints