There was something horridly bitter,
In the triumphant soar Icarus saw.
When his father begged him to heed his word,
And in response he threw his head back
Laughing, gazing at the the vast sky,
Preparing to bound towards victory.
And that warm sublime daylight embraced
His scintillating vermillion plumage,
The tender touch coaxing his pride,
Blistering his skin as it kissed him.
He cared little for the agony, naïve,
Perhaps, his health mattered not,
His romance with that sun, like
A scorpion beguiling a folly frog.
T'was only when the wax wet his cheeks,
Only when his wings bruised his skin,
Only when his father turned back,
Face pallid, a pale moon compared to his radiance.
As he fell he cried, yelled,
But the comfort of vermillion feathers,
Falling golden through his fingers,
Like prayers hailing Apollo himself-
-made it seem perhaps not so bad.
Oh! but he was falling! And he fell.
And the seafoam caressed his aching,
Tired body, cajoling him to sleep at last.
Oh, but in that flight he tasted,
The faint taste of ichor on his tongue,
Icarus was yes, a fool, perhaps
But he had been the closest to kissing the heavens.
Written 15/10/20, Edited 27/06/22