The following is a a poem of mine, based on the idea of the Greek myth of Icarus, and what it would be like if Icarus had not died. A father and son escaping prison on wings made of feathers and wax, but only the father survived. Icarus, it says in the myth, thought that flying in a straight line was boring, and began to defy his father's words of wisdom. Flying low above the sea, and high towards the sun, Icarus tested the limits of his wings, until at his father's shout, he noticed the wax beginning to drip down his arms. It was already too late to stop him from falling, but Daedalus tried to save him from crashing into the sea. As he fell, Icarus looked up at the sky, and prayed for salvation. He would do anything, but he didn't want to die here, in the ocean, like a fallen bird. Apollo, it says in the myths, thought that Icarus deserved to die; his arrogance and defiance of the rules making him worthy of the consequences. This poem is based on the concept that Apollo decided to let him live, but also to make him an immortal, one cursed to never touch the sky again.
Immortal Icarus, forever scarred,
forced to live on the ground.
So as to never reach so arrogantly for the sun again.
His hair burned white to reflect all light.
Scars burnt along his back,
shoulders and arms almost black.
Wax burns drip like wings,
forever sealed from being king.
Staring up at the birds so free,
he longs for the skies they see.
Broad shoulders bowed, and long legs stretched,
but no matter how far he reaches,
the sun will never be touched.
As the days go by, all he dreams of is to fly.
Time goes by, and humans learn on their own,
just how hard it is to touch the sky.
People fly in planes so freely,
only costing them money.
Icarus still stays upon the earth.
Unsure now, how he would fare,
if he were to dare to leave the ground.
His scars remind him daily,
he aches to remember not being lonely.
He can sail to new places, drive cars, he can travel.
But there is nothing like soaring,
not even floating.
Dressed in modern clothes,
but longing for old robes,
Icarus dreams of his father long ago,
even wishing to be caged again,
if only to see his father's face once more.
To turn back time and choose all over,
and this time, to listen to father.
The clock chimes, and his thoughts interrupted,
he notices something along the garden wall.
A bird, it's wing trapped in thorns,
desperately trying to free itself.
Hurting itself for it's freedom, he realizes.
As he helps to free the bird, it fights him.
He thinks, 'If this were me,
I'd want to be free.
Rather a bird with broken wings,
than stuck in indoors.'
His cage is not small,
in fact, it's rather large,
but the wings he's been dragging,
have been pulling him further down.
All he has to do is cut them off and he'd be free to roam.
He could make this world, this time, his home,
if only he dared to go alone.
He may be able to find a place here,
a home his father would be proud of.
Memories are made to be remembered,
not to haunt and the past lasts longer with pain.
To make the best of this curse of time,
is to make use of gifts given long ago.
Some forgotten now, but slowly remembered,
dredging up the past in embers
of buildings that were once home.
In Greece, the prison is uncovered,
old history told new to the world.
Like a scar that slowly fades,
time has eased the ache
of a family lost and dreams taken,
but the spirit is not broken.
For the immortal Icarus,
it is a chain finally broken, wings finally freed
and in time his spirit rises to the sky.
Maybe not yet touching, but always reaching,
an old gesture, a habit
to chase the sun, and touch the sky.
times flies by,
and yet time does not flow
through you as it did before.
may you fly through time as you did that day;
rising on the wind,
reaching for the sea below
and sun above
in love with flight and life.