I have wings, but I am not a bird. I am often seen in heaven. What am I?

Oh, I am tired, yet cannot sleep, I wish a mallet would not strike so deep. I lay in bed, with weary dread, as sleep drifts by, just out of reach.

I tend to be a wild card I might make you laugh very hard My archival wears a disguise Sometimes he’s a man but Sometimes he flies

I stand without moving yet I watch it all unfold. Sometimes I guard a story sometimes I hold a face. My edges define what others see inside me but I am empty on my own. I can hang in silence or flicker with sound. What am I?

I have a toe pick to jump and spin, Or a rockered blade for a hockey win. I might have four wheels or just a metal edge, Taking you from the street to the icy ledge.