poem, hi.
(self-written easter 2010)
"Rise of a Fallen Son, Dear Icarus"
may curiousity reach me up to the heavens,
so close to the sun as to singe my wings,
for, I, know those gates are closed anyways,
hath not to cringe a muscle, but to fall for days.
the plummet of I, a son of sacrifice itself,
an embodiment of pain for the sky to weep,
laughter never to seep out of another's death but my own,
and need not a breath for the sea to clean my bones.
yet with these tattered feathers, melted and burned,
a spirit of acceptance; he whose wings bring burden,
intends not to change understanding that knows no bounds,
stings of a last thread bury only those sporting crowns.
as oceans of porcelain hold goddess's frowns,
deep down in their familiar sorrows I can now rest,
with bold knowledge of love, then exile, sacrifice and loss found,
the sounds of water, more soothing for thy soul than that of air or ground.
"Rise of a Fallen Son, Dear Icarus"
may curiousity reach me up to the heavens,
so close to the sun as to singe my wings,
for, I, know those gates are closed anyways,
hath not to cringe a muscle, but to fall for days.
the plummet of I, a son of sacrifice itself,
an embodiment of pain for the sky to weep,
laughter never to seep out of another's death but my own,
and need not a breath for the sea to clean my bones.
yet with these tattered feathers, melted and burned,
a spirit of acceptance; he whose wings bring burden,
intends not to change understanding that knows no bounds,
stings of a last thread bury only those sporting crowns.
as oceans of porcelain hold goddess's frowns,
deep down in their familiar sorrows I can now rest,
with bold knowledge of love, then exile, sacrifice and loss found,
the sounds of water, more soothing for thy soul than that of air or ground.