"Icarus," I breathe
through my dreams of flying free.
The naïveté of the youngling I desired to be
was a warning sign to all that watched his descent.
It was not his disobedience that led to this --
to his body buffeted in the merciless winds and swept up by the sea --
but being blinded by boundless beauty through his kaleidoscope vision.
What more could one wish for than the all-encompassing euphoria
of weaving through the sun-soaked clouds,
of learning the meaning of freedom as you reach up
to brush your fingers against the sun?
What more could one know than wanting something so desperately
that every shiny red sign is just one more bauble for your collection
as you struggle to escape the empty abyss engulfing you from within,
as you let the feeling of bliss envelope you for one heavenly moment,
as everyone screams in tinny voices that you should listen --
listen! --
but at least you got this one second,
this one heartbeat of a moment,
to finally let the chains fall from your bloodied wrists
and spread your newfound wings for all to see, for you to see,
for once, for nobody but yourself
before tumbling to the beat of gravity's forlorn yet never-ending song.
And maybe he regretted it
and maybe I will too
but as I press my palm against the echo of the sunlit expanse
reverberating in someone else's memory,
one word slips from my parted lips:
"Icarus."

How easy do those small birds fly,
Over the things which make us cry,
And feel like the greatest burdens,
In the depths and peaks of the sky.

I was told if I ate worms,
I could fly.
Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms.
I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground.
That didn't end well.
Rockwell suggested frying them.
Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King.
Don't be called a worm.
Don't worm your way in,
You'll likely find a hook.
I'm forever grounded.
The worm hasn't turned.

i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.

now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.

these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.

and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
low-everything
airplanes.

He
Heard the voice calling in his heart
Grew his wings
Beyond the horizon he flies

There's no map of the skies
Nobody heard his cries
Lost forever in the mist
Of his mind

His way back he couldn't find
So he moved on
Fading into the colors of sunset
Nothing left behind

Shelter is a storm.
Flying high; my heart within.
Why must you float on?

The Bumble-Bees so happily
from flower to flower they bumble

A scientist insists:
              "this cannot be
                it's an areodynamic  scandal!"

with a formular:  Y somewhat x Phi
he proofes why Bumble-Bees can't fly at all:      
      their bodies are too heavy to fly
      as their wings are much to small

I humbly admit: physic is all greek to me
I enjoy Bumble-Bees and their humming

and the Bumble- Bees seem to agree with me
and continue to fly...

                                   ...isn't that stunning?

©Heike Borgard 01/21

they want to see you crumble like an old abandoned building
they wait for you to stop climbing
they pray that you will ultimately fail
however, they fear your gaze
for you have a fire in your eyes
and that fire is hot enough to burn away any doubt