Wandering through the twisting corridors of the labyrinth,
I don't care about the people I left behind
          I don't care about your cold grey glassy eyes,
          and I don't care about your new paper wings -
I've seen Daedalus, and wax on the labyrinth floor

I don't care that you sold everything for a fifteen second flight
          and I don't care about the radiance that blinded you
          and I don't worry about these twisting corridors
but wearing these new wings you never thought about Icarus -

In fifteen seconds I saw your soul -
I don't care about the lies you told me
          and I don't care about the lies you told everyone else
          and I don't care about your razor sharp silver tongue -
your lies were only to yourself

But when we met last in the labyrinth
you told me about your new paper wings
you told me they were the key to freedom, and happiness
I guess I did care - it brought tears to my eyes
I wondered:
when you first tried on these paper wings,
did you ever think about Icarus?

Ophelia - now - might I see you
          with your unwashed grey sweater and torn blue jeans
                    ***** brown hair much longer now -
          you will not smell like you did in June,
          patchouli oil, and stale cigarettes now -
          and you'll look at me with dull grey eyes
                    and your smile so forced you ask
                              how I'm doing

mad gleam in my eye returned
I see the river running, long and black,
          I see the flowers you never received from hateful men -
you must hate me for leaving you behind
          I was obsessed with the highway
          and you with staying home -
I will say hello and look away

Ophelia -
watch the flowers going downstream,
          fallen now, and brown, all brown
            wilted memories of a past
            you cannot hold forever -

last time I saw you was December
          you were so... strange
you seemed so cold with your new wanton obsessions -
  so unlike the shimmering of the summer
  I think, sometimes, you must have hated me then
          I don't care -
I wear clean clothes now and shave every day.
          It's almost March;
I can feel warm sunlight on my shoulders.
I do not hate you -
the ring you gave me is gone -
I must have lost it somewhere
and your necklace shattered on a cold tile floor,
still, I think of you, sometimes,
  but the flowers are dead
the flowers wilted so long ago
                    Ophelia