I walked with the crows one day
one with a broken wing told me that
plucking feathers and fearing as Icarus
once did
was far worse than a battered bone
and i don’t know how
but it sighed
its shoulders shrugged
and died two weeks later
i built it a small oak coffin
from the remnants of
the wings i made
just as icarus did
and i cried
for six days and six nights
with melted wax fused to my skin
and the skeleton wings staring back at me
it was right
as happy as icarus once was
pain still paints his portrait
the sun beating hate
down onto the sea
with no promise of cooling rain
i would've mended its broken wing
but first i had to grow up