It seems my voice enters a void,
where it deepens alone to be destroyed,
in good times I am threatened to it quits,
pack my words, my mind, and all my wits,
to a far away planet away from earth's mess,
where light-years are tired, and ideas are mindless

but, alas, I have not wings like Icarus,
only his fire to make misery obvious,
falling back to earth, where it claims I belong,
falling back into the mess where none cares what is wrong