Icarus, Revisited
In a house, half-mad, with mother and dad,
And a labyrinth he couldn’t escape -
He trudged the maze, with a string ball, so sad.
The sky’s warm, gay orb, too, was round in shape.
So pretty was she, he dreamt as he marched,
And he constructed a bright plan in his head,
Sweating through shirts which his mother had starched,
He remembered what his father had said.
He would see his girl (the sun in the sky).
Augmenting his arms with two waxen wings,
A catapult shot him o’er clouds so high.
He burned, melted, crashed, his arms then in slings.
Dad said, “too close”, but his expounding lacks -
It was - his wings were inferior wax.
Copyright ©
David Crandall
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