coagulating on the wooden floor.
Maybe Icarus flew to close to the sun, again.
or I must of left the back door open, again.
The poor man always just a little too excitable
As I walk over to get the dust pan,
the feathers fizzle in a dance with the wind.
I sweep them up and toss them outside
where leaves are falling from the trees.
the ground is melting of wax and a heavy heart.
I wish someone would tell Icarus that he already had the Sun.
Every morning when we awake and it peels over the mountains
creeping over the city as it peels back the night.