The Icarus

Weary am I

Of the mimicry

Of power which long ago

Wrapped the spry

Society which once we named savagery

Tribes of people

Pounding out rhythms

To match the flow of that crystal stream

Poured soundly from the Pitcher of Life

No feign of privilege

No delusion of docility

Respect was a four-course meal

To harbor those souls of steel

And languor was the threateningly

Avid hurricane.

Ripe fruit was never left un-bled.

Life lived on long after

Light left the eyes

Thanks to the thoughtfulness of those

Who depended on kindness and season to survive.

The wilderness was never left without us,

Its wild playmates.

And the lonely never reawakened.

Such were the days,

When deed was value;

Community a tribute

To every fight to be won.

Once, the biggest dreams propelled our victory.

Now, are the victors lethargic.

Impassioned with lust,

And cremated by the songs of freedom

We have escaped the waters of responsibility

And been left with ash

In our mouths.

The stream to be obstructed.

The last drop to be stemmed.

Merry, mischievous wanderers

Whose wild dreams have tamed them.

They are no longer the stars of constellations

Each burning their own course.

They spout the pride of the chariot,

Now flames of a single sun,

Lost to those tracks of humility.

And I, a bard of those passing follies,

Have no effective arrow

But Truth,

Or bow but Love,

To free the stars swimming in those flames.

While together, they would try

To set each weapon against the other, I

Am left with fighting to find a balance,

Fighting each one by one by one.

Can't I handle fire without getting burned?

Am not I immune to the same scorching, sizzling lies?

My hands would prove otherwise.

The fights turned to passion

More than once but

Our natures

Would eventually aim to put

One another out entirely

For I could not let go of my weapons.

So here I am.

Only powerful when passionless.

And powerless when passion brings

This Icarus

To the same.