Icarus

Time’s breath runs down my neck as I build

these wings out of pieces of my self - ripped

from sinews, from veins - for my body is a

garden, ripe with all I need. I dig in deep,

scraping flesh from bone, essence from soul,

until the wings are ready, and at last I can

take flight, because perfection is on the lips

of Heaven, and I have vowed to kiss them.

With these wings, I will rise above every

judging eye, which busy themselves by

clawing holes through the husk that was

once my flesh - yet I don’t feel their poison

glares. I tore out my heart, using the blood

as fuel - so instead, I wait for the dawn,

and at last I will show them - I will be the

immaculate child they demand I become.

When the sun raises her golden head, I see

Him there, hidden in the flames - God, His

gates are open with the promise I seek. I

tether the wings, nailing them to skin the way

blood clings to bandages on an open wound,

smooth like glass made from polished steel,

and I will myself to fly, to feel the embrace of

freedom of being untouched by Earth’s woes.

Time’s sigh echoes within my ears as the wings

I built begin to crumble - brittle and barren, they

shatter into a rainfall of shards - for the flesh is

weak, and the blood has hardened. My wings

might as well have been forged out of wax

are now dust, and as I watch the promise of

perfection wave a forlorn goodbye, I see that

the only lips I will kiss are those of the ground.