MAYBE ICARUS KNEW


Maybe Icarus knew, 
but he loved
and thus lived, 
Like a brief, bright spark .
Like a drunkard stumbling through the streets, 
Icarus staggered
towards the flame, 
his wings beating
wildly, 
like the legs of a poet.
Maybe Icarus knew, 
but he loved the way 
the sun's heat warped 
the air
into a shimmering lake, 
its surface
trembling with 
each beat of his wings.
He loved the way 
the light unraveled
the threads of his being, 
leaving him
a tapestry of scars, 
a map of his
own undoing.
Yet he flew, 
unmoored
from the weights 
that anchored him
to the earth, 
its solidity, 
its certainties,
its myths.
He soared into 
the unknown, 
a comet of desire, 
burning.
Yet, 
in that moment,
he was free.
Unencumbered by 
the gravity of 
his own doubts, 
his own fears
he flew, 
a leaf on the wind's breath.
And what remains are
a few scattered feathers 
and
a shard of the sun,
that shattered him into a relic,
a shadow of his name.


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