If only I were Daedalus
And not a dawdler
Oh, the heights I could fall from
Constructing a frame of ideas
My tools worn with use and care
Picking up words and phrases like feathers
Moltings from literary masters
Whose language can send you soaring
Waxing over every poetic verse
My wings might blot out the sun
But I have no fear of salty waves
Or star’s burning spotlight
Gingerly, cowardly I fold them away
Lock them in a drawer
Next to dreams written in dull lead
Grown anemic in the shadows
Bound in fear and faux leather
Where they will never fail
Because I will never fly
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From Poppy’s prompt, here:
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A/N : I’m wallowing in this particular puddle of ennui because I’m trying to navigate my inability to make time for a project that I think has “wings.” My daydreams for it are wonderful, but not overly productive. I hope to overcome this soon, but it’s nice to let the gremlins out of my brain. Give them somewhere else to run around.
About the Creator
Sean A.
A happy guy that tends to write a little cynically. Just my way of dealing with the world outside my joyous little bubble.
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