Flew, higher than
instructed.
Defying what was told
to be right.
That too, from his
father,
the caring one.
Those waxed wings,
the masterpiece
- of a fine craftsman
that his father was,
freed him from the
cages
of King Minos…
Those waxed wings,
Indeed, freed him
from the cages of the
King,
and before they could
chain him
in the doctrines of
his father,
he freed himself,
and flew up in the sky,
to reach that sun.
The hot burning sun.
To do what no one did
before him.
To reach where none
could.
And the wax melted.
The wings dropped.
His body descended.
Steep. Sharp. Silent.
In the deep blue sea.
What’s right?
and what’s wrong?
What if the life itself
was
not valued
more than that one
flight
closest to the sun?
What if, the death
as he fulfilled his
dream,
or may be his ‘immature’ desire,
was not as big a loss
as not having flown
highest
while he had those
wings,
those waxed wings?
In your myth,
he is an ignorant
looser.
In mine, a dreamer.
In your's, his fall matters,
In mine, the flight.
Whose myth is the
truth,
of that fall of
Icarus?
Who can decide?
- Based on the story of Icarus. The image is a painting by Charles Griffith and is sourced from fineartamerica website.
#Day21 #The100DayProject #100DaysOfProseToPoetry #Icarus #FallOfIcarus
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