Falling down and down,
wings melting to wax
until he's submerged
in inky blackness.
Falling from the
clear blue sky,
away from the
glowing, golden orb
hung high above in the air
that he flew too high, too close to
in admiration and enthrallment.
Is this treachery,
is this betrayal?
Of the sky?
Of the sun?
Of the freedom
he'd giddily reveled in?
Is he not supposed
to consider it as such?
Even as he tries to steal
a breath from the cruel water
of the capricious and cold ocean,
gasping and painfully alone?