Poetry

141. Icarus

04 08 2013-5

I tripped over the corpse of
your last death.

My wings of ink came alive,
so instead of crumbling behind you into the abyss,
I soared upwards,
chasing the sun that was once a womb
for your loud and easy laughter:
a thunderous earthquake,
cacophony of coughs and cackles.

Music for my ears alone.
All the wrong tones played
in the right places.

I used to join in,
tone-deaf common nightingale,
chirping away to the symphony of your sky.

Now,  I brave heights unseen,
and the sun (a tomb
pregnant with the ring and timbre
of your final song)
burns away my doodled wings.

The ink drips down from heaven,
black rain.

All the right words scattered
in the wrong poem.

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