Icarus
i like to think
that when a man is a reduced
to a dusty heap of feathers
he can,
after a time of stitching wounds
and knitting bones,
haul himself to his feet
and limp on
(more steady with each step)
to find something less fickle
to bind his dreams to
to take the leap again
and maybe it doesn't matter
if he ever really flies,
so long as he tries
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