The Fallen Child
As He bore the sight of a golden chariot crossing above Poseidon,
The prophetic God felt hellfire sear His back.
Fear and glee swelled in His chest, but why?
Apollo turned to see Helios,
And the Unconquered Sun was weeping.
Apollo searched the heavens and roamed for an answer,
But found heartbreak and horror in the shout of Daedalus.
The builder’s beloved son, and sanity, was falling through the sky,
Feathers and wax rained, scalding torture for both Icarus and his father.
But Icarus was proud, he was given freedom and used it accordingly.
Icarus welcomed the sea as both engineer and God cried.
May I follow?
Why does a fallen child suddenly come to mind When searching the clouds for an answer?
If I were to follow Apollo for the day
Would He melt my wings?
Or would He run
Fearing the child He could not save has returned
Only to plague His memory Reminding the God of Prophecy
He could not predict tragedies His godly hands orchestrated
His life was not His lyre: Apollo, you’re no maestro in love.
Love hath turned lovers to nature.
Wonderous trees and blooming flowers,
Sweetly and cruelly reminding you,
You bastard son and idol all the same,
That you could only chase so far,
And feel so tenderly,
Before the rhythm in your chest deepened
And slowed to its lonely, familiar elegy.
May I soon follow its melody?
Music was your strength, but love hath rooted you,
Just as it did your lovers.