Foolish vain Icarus, fly close to the sun. Watch your wax wings melt, that light that you cherished sending you down into the sea. If only it could be so easy for one to fly into dark waters, but all that was waiting for Icarus was despair.
What good are wax wings to the deceased? To those that are dead, the wax is no longer there, but frames, charred black by the light they dared to touch. There is freedom with these wings, empty music staffs that cannot hold notes, and yet air bends to them as if there was more than wires springing from a once smooth back.
Perhaps these are nothing but the wings of a fledgling, and with time they would become something more, would I become something more then used kindling? I have run out of time.
Oh Icarus, you flew to escape your prison, guided by your father’s hand and works. Oh foolish I, who fly to escape the prison I trapped myself in. Will I too have a watery waste to welcome me?
What is death to those who are dead? Does oblivion feel like slipping below the sea? Could even I return home for a moment before I disappeared?
Did fear curl around your heart, young Icarus? Did you know that you were going to fall the moments before it started? I can see it now, my hands reach for the heat of it. I cannot feel it, my wings are not wax, and I am already in despair.
I am not you, ancient Icarus. My father is not here to save me, there is no escape from this prison I have brought on myself, there is no ocean waiting to catch me when I fall. My wings will not melt, I know you thought that as you flew, as surely as I’m thinking now.
Pitiful Icarus, your wings burned, and you fell.
We are not angels, you and I, we were both doomed to fail. You for your pride, and I for my hope.
Give me your flight, Icarus, and I’ll give you mine, you will touch the sun, and I will touch the sea. Let me taste home and be free.