Icarus, Fly

Here's a brief poetic hors d'oeuvre for your consumption. It is no more meaningful than it appears, though I was pleasantly surprised at how the subject and the form came together without issue. Yet another case of the muse superseding the artist, as always, for the better. This poem does hearken back to the late romanticism of the likes of John Clare and Charlotte Smith, of which I am not overly fond, though I feel it is short enough to allow for such a lapse of judgment.


Icarus, Fly

Rise up, fair Icarus, though your wings melt
and your doom darkly waits in the fall,
for it’s better to fly too close to the gods
than to never have flown at all.