"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."