he keeps making wings
to have fleeting touches
with the sun
and every time, he falls

all he has for building
is what he finds in his heart
but wax always melts in the heat;
icarus & apollo were not meant to be

and yet:
he falls into the ocean again
and again
and again.

'perhaps,' he prays, young and naive
'that great star too, wishes
he were not made of flame
so that, for more than a moment, he might know me'