In every rural town,
every industrial village,
you will find at least one Icarus,
wings confined under hand-me-down cotton
and passed down desperation for purity.
They walk in dim factories and barren fields,
hands calloused, eyes wandering,
lips yearning for a promised
means of weightlessness.
[Is it not cruel how they often lay to earth
before they are welcomed by brighter horizons?
Is it not cruel that they must know this,
that we must stand witness? ]
They love the way they live:
with heavenly, sanguine words
and one foot off the ground.
I saw a young man soar, once
tears in his golden eyes
and though legend says the sun
did not greet him kindly,
no one will ever deny
that he flew.
No one will ever deny
that they wished they did, too.
I AM THE DAUGHTER OF
A GROUND-BOUND ICARUS;
HE WON'T MEET THE SUN'S GAZE.
WE WATCHED A YOUNG MAN SOAR, ONCE,
HIS FATHER WAVING FROM THE CAR
AS THEY PASSED.
MY ICARUS TOLD ME HE NO LONGER
WISHES TO LEAVE SO MUCH AS
HE LONGS TO BE THE ONE DRIVING.
HE BROKE MY HEART THAT DAY.
The memory continues to, still.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
