constructed wings

alcoves with slivers of silver light
a core without surface—a mirror
of sorts, a pendulum within all time

affirmation is called for—that not
everything will be mired in dissolution;
the essence gives form and definition
to the illusion with which existence contends

uncharted tomorrows pull us closer
as the carousel slows and the music
throbs out to dullness—
note by note, turn by turn;
where is the launching, the flight,
the temptation of pride that drowned
Icarus in miscalculations?

how simple not to have known
of wax melting—how tempting
to fly toward the sun on constructed wings,
knowing that real wings would never
carry the spirit far above the world we know
and claim as a foundation for true

how simple—no need for instruments or landscapes
no need for horizons or the tested world;
just the sum of the hourglass, the climate of the dream,
breaking like a wave against a rock when the falling begins

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