He found himself Untethered.
Unchained,
with every beat of waxy wing,
rising.
Sweet, tawny feathers
tickled his ribs pleasantly
with every arch
of his back, every tension
of his bare shoulders.

Warnings left unheeded,
unhinged cries leap from his lips
as he flips about
in the warm, salty air.
The undulating waves
far below,
look soft;
the rise and fall like breaths
of a sleeping babe.

A swarm of bees took his heart
in their sweet, trembling hands,
whispering congratulations.
He shook, blood burning with
each breath of bright air,
fresh.
His hair whipped by gentle breeze,
inviting sun
seeping into translucent, purplish skin.

Rivulets of hot sweat rolled
in the riverbeds between his muscles,
dripping from eyelashes and
elbows and jawline;
corners.
He spins up and up,
higher, up,
and down.
Down?

Arms flapping, flailing now,
trailing feathers and rivets
and loosening screws
like falling snow;
a storm above the sea.
Wax-coated eyelashes
laden with honey tears,
sticky, wind whooshing
through panicking fingers.

Scrabbling hands desperately clutching
chunks of melted wing,
scarred wood bearing the marks
of his father’s chisel,
unimportant now.  
His bony, haughty face twists in writhing
emotion.
He falls head over heels over head
over heels.

Split sea,
winded,
bones crunch as body impacts,
shoulders, back, thighs, toes.
Pale limbs bend in odd ways,
distinctly Not how his inventor
put him together, so carefully.
He tastes salt, metal,
blood and brine mixing in his mouth.

No space in there to thank his father too.