No Face.

My wings have been clipped, like a frail little butterfly, I am doomed to never feel the great distances grow short in but a moment. 

I am doomed to an early death, my sorrows are paid no attention for they think its a hoax. The frail movement of my limbs are swiftly on and about, and every little single task I encounter has been made much more complex, no longer a walk in the park.

I am being kept from what is true, from what is right. But don't worry I'll be sure to give you a fright tonight.

A crouch is my stance, my limbs lean and made for stealth, I am tall, if need be. 

But don't look at my face, because it'll be no face you'll see. 

All the scars that mark this flesh, oh once upon a time it had been a face that many claimed to see.

Who am I? I am but a person with no face.