The sun scorched down,

Hunger grew and so did weariness,

Light turns to darkness and cools wax between wings,

¨Do not fly too high, nor to low Icarus.¨

But you forget that he was the sun of the smartest god,

He grew up buried under mountains of textbooks and taught by the wisest of them all,

Icarus knew what he was doing,

Racing,

Soaring,

Flying,

Higher and higher,

Wax leaving burning streaks across his back,

Dripping down shoulders, thighs, and calves,

Feathers floating like prayers past fingers,

Almost, almost, almost,

(You see there is a bitter triumph in falling when you should be flying)

Cascading, sea spray pulling you down,

Death scorching kisses on his cheek,

The sun painting the world in valiant shades of gold on the horizon,

(There is an ethereal beauty in setting your world on fire and watching from the centre of the flames)