Tuesday, January 28, 2014

what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.

Here is what they don’t tell you:
Icarus laughed as he fell. 
Threw his head back and 
yelled into the winds, 
arms spread wide, 
teeth bared to the world
(there is a bitter triumph 
in crashing when you should be 
The wax scorched his skin, 
ran blazing trails down his back, 
his thighs, his ankles, his feet. 
Feathers floated like prayers 
past his fingers, 
close enough to snatch back. 
Death breathed burning kisses 
against his shoulders, 
where the wings joined the harness. 
The sun painted everything 
in shades of gold
(there is a certain beauty 
in setting the world on fire 
and watching from the centre 
of the flames).