Locked in crimson feathers

A man with wings so red they'd put fire to shame. Flies high above the city skyline, an easy grin a talk-active personality all to hide the corruption within. As a child taken away, poverty served as a tool to lock him up and his crimson feathers as the bars in a prison cell. Too fast for his own good they shout, too high in the skies they cried, too close to the sun they roared. Yet his wings weren't made of wax, so his fall wasn't guaranteed. This saddened the man, his feathers served as chains, locked in a cage never to truly be free. No option to flee, forever a slave to his own gift.