the deep plunge,downhill,
the drop
(whatever you want to call it)
A fall
into oblivion
into sea
into darkness
into the return button
into heaven perhaps (or hell)
Your feathers are everywhere,
like leaflets
from a flying electoral campaign
spending millions,
and losing to the sun
The people below,
either collect the little winglets
of your wings,
pile them up to burn
or wait for the parent bird to drop
so they can feed on your carcass
The insane,
the profane,
your own bane,
the sun's challenger,
cooked by the champion.
What would deadalus say, Homo Icarus?
And what of your journey out of Crete?
You went off course,
the destination was there,
just off the island
not heaven above,
glory undimmed,
or the unreachable star.
No,
you looked up,
and went vertical.
Now,
be phoenix
and rise from your ashes
No more make believe,
no more pretending
or improvised wings
You are a bird of fire,
child of the sun,
you will fly to heaven
to your name.
This time,
for real.
