Icarus Fell

Arms stretched out, he reached for sky,

A hush fell behind, the world grew deep.

“Touch the stars. Take the leap,” he cried,

As oceans stirred in restless sleep.

The tide below, it spoke in moans,

Its waves like ink, both cold and black.

It whispered truths in sunless tones,

And waited still to take him back.

From far-off cliffs the voices came,

Some wrapped in scorn, some laced with care.

They called his foolish flight a shame,

A waste to fling himself through the air.

“What’s the point of being a muse,”

One voice cried out, both sharp and low,

“If all you are is one who’ll lose—

Who burns, then vanishes far below?”

“Why rise at all,” another said,

“If every dream must end with a fall?”

“Why chase the light, when fate has led

So many to their final call?”

But still he soared, his gaze ahead,

His heart a storm, his breath a flame.

He flew not fearing where he’d tread,

But only fearing staying the same.

The sun was bright, a golden crown,

Not meant for mortal hands to hold.

But still he reached, and still looked down

With eyes that dared the myth retold.

The wax gave way. The feathers fled.

The sky grew silent, still and bare.

He didn’t cry. He did not dread.

His soul was caught in brighter air.

For shadow is our native ground,

The dark we walk, the dusk we know.

But even silence makes a sound

When wings have brushed the sun’s bright glow.

Yes, Icarus fell—his body broke.

The sea rose up with arms stretched wide.

It cradled him, without a stroke,

And drew him to its endless tide.

But oh—before the waves could take,

Before the wind had lost its tune,

He left behind a gleaming wake:

A boy who touched the sun at noon.

So say he fell, say dreams don’t last.

Say wax and feathers come undone.

But tell it all, don’t race too fast:

Before he fell, he flew. He won.