I wonder if Icarus

Ever realised

That he’d really,

well, and truly,

fucked up.


Did he panic when the sun’s relentless rays

whipped liquid lashes of molten wax

Across his cracked and naked back?


Or was that drowned in the cascade

of adrenalin-pumped sweat





As cyclones of raw air

spun down every corridor

of his breathless, weightless being,

propelling him forward,

Waltzing with Fate,

And wishing to be nowhere else?


Did he start to scream in horror

As his woven feathers betrayed him,

And his heart leapt into his mouth,

Plummeting in a nose dive

Towards the tiny chalk-dust town

He’d spent a lifetime plotting to escape?


I like to think he spiralled down

Wingless and wide-eyed,

Cracked lips blaring a boundless smile,

Having carved his name onto the unflinching face

Of Mount Olympus.


Grateful to have grazed the sun,

Ready to return Home

A comet from the heavens,

Departing his final orbit,

Shining even in the daylight

For the dreamers below

Who dared look above.

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