during a quiet spring sunset,
there was a foolish young boy,
precariously searching for release.

with fragile wings,
his father composed of
feathers and wax,
he had finally escaped.

he paid no heed to the warning,
“don’t fly too close.”

reaching for the sun was pure insanity,
as he realized all too soon,
his efforts were completely wasted.

oh how the wings,
of wax rapidly melted.

with clutching hands,
and a desperate cry
up towards the sky,
he fell to the sea.

a new blue tie,
a freshly ironed smile.

a political ****** expression,
a polished pair of leather dress shoes.

the democracy's corruption police,
becomes a system of spoils.

they chose their heirs,
before the election,
even begins.

talents lost in initiatives hands.
respect changes them,
leaving justice behind in the process.

trying to make sense of nothing,
is what this free land has become.

an oligarchic form of life,
and an autocratic vision of the future.

here's the thing about poetry,
there is no tangible definition.
there is no standard,
there is no normal.

each one of us are made of adjectives,
metaphorically speaking.
we are made of words,
that flow within the depths of our minds,
and reminds us what it's like to be alive.
each, a beautiful thought to think.

so i thank god for poetry,
because otherwise?
my thoughts wouldn't know,
where to go.