I don't want to be
a heartbroken Daedalus.
Let me have those wings
so I could be
the one to burn
carefree
into the sun
selfish, ignorant, oblivious.
Not grieving and delirious.
Incinerate this youth,
this dream to the root;
an instant ball of flames,
so but memory remains.

* * *

Cut my wings before I'm high
Are you my Daedalus?
We're not mature enough to fly.
I'm not your Icarus.
I'd rather be the liver
of Prometheus,
not himself who did deliver
hope to those oblivious,
misusing now his fire...

* * *

I'd rather be the liver of Prometheus
than live in this illusion of deliverance
The more you know, the more you're faced with ignorance;
and ignorance defeats you with experience

I'd rather be the wings of Icarus
and know the smell of burning feathers
than have a tomb stone like the one of Sisyphus,
no longer strong to push it from the nether

so criminal yet delightful,
an everlasting face of foolery
words wisps upon his lips
entangled with truths masked
within lies

he is pretentious
attempts carry on as persons
so polite yet deadly
he who makes those feel centered
ignorant to the strings lifting their arms
feet dancing to the rhythm of their doom
intellect marking no boundaries

the earth beckons at his feet
the wind kisses his face
you can smell the fear in the air

the world is his kingdom

A turn of the torso in the hall
          Be it to look back or forward
          Past or beyond the past
          Is not necessarily wrong at all
Unless of course the owner of the turn
          Is twisting therein arrogance
          Or with an unsettling voice
          Which demeans all others in the hall
But if such a twisting diaphragm can actually sing
          Then arrogance is more all the more tolerable
          And not so much a problem at all
Because the sound will be beautiful*
          Even if the character is not beautiful at all

Electric light,
a robot sun;
the real one,
a god,
who was dethroned,
and now we make our own,
powered by our blinding
arrogance and vanity