What if Icarus knew what he was doing?
He chose each feather with precision –
the indigo of the bluebird, crisp like the sky
on the day he took flight. The pearly
gray of the mourning dove matching
the concrete clouds he drifted
into. The tail feather of a peacock,
the emerald and sapphire mimicking
the ocean he would eventually
crash into. And the wax that held
it all together, melted from the candles
that burned when he lay with his lover,
one final touch before saying goodbye.
He knew he would never come back,
he just got the ending wrong.
He chose each feather with precision –
the indigo of the bluebird, crisp like the sky
on the day he took flight. The pearly
gray of the mourning dove matching
the concrete clouds he drifted
into. The tail feather of a peacock,
the emerald and sapphire mimicking
the ocean he would eventually
crash into. And the wax that held
it all together, melted from the candles
that burned when he lay with his lover,
one final touch before saying goodbye.
He knew he would never come back,
he just got the ending wrong.
