Icarus

My father had no feet
so he gave me wings
and I
who never learned to walk
flew,
flying so high
I fell
and died
and dying
rose
to fly again.

My father had no feet
so forged a myth:
to reach for dreams
without comprehending what’s real,
to surrender to pleasure
without enduring pain,
to live with shadows
without engaging the living
things of substance
from which they are cast.

And there in the darkness of the shadow
that was the labyrinth he built,
there he forged the myth of me,
fabled child
heir to the throne of delusion,
a boy who could fly
but could not walk
even as my wax wings melted and the molted feathers frayed,
there
struggling to escape the dark myth
as I approached the fatal light.

As Minos hid the Minotaur
and Daedalus his pride,
so my footless father bred a boy
who could neither reason nor roam
but hid in fantasy
to bury inadequacy and disguise the shame.

How many more innocent souls must we sacrifice
to expiate our fathers’ follies?

Mine had no feet so he gave me wings
and yet it is on these wings that I fly
finding the soul beneath the myth,
plumbing the strength that is mine beyond the darkness,
not reaching for the light but one with it by birth,
for it is on these wings that I fly,
though I fall,
I rise,
I soar,
I flourish,
I live.