Desire imparts the sweet gift of expansion,
drawing me to a higher ledge
while this forbidden urge and the passing
Seasons shove me over the edge,
from summer to fall
into the Realm of Persephone’s sad call,
And my thoughts like porcelain tendrils
splinter the glassy soil
until it is time to rise…
Man is made to soar, to pierce the stratum
of the impossible sky,
to leap from the garden into the sun.
Icarus is in our blood, and his plunge
was not an end, but rather
the nudge to devise inflammable wings.
end/michael
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