Icarus
The city was alive. My eyes burned as I watched the bright neon lights lovingly mingle with the dark
clouds. Intimacy. It’s been a long time. I inhaled, and the city exhaled, we’re one and the same. In
sync. I am the bird and sky above, the buildings my nest and roots below.
I was alone, strictly speaking, but I wasn’t lonely, there were others before but they left; plucked by
the invisible hand. They were not clever enough; I am. I will not be culled, I will fly. I am a mind and
the city is my body. My thoughts resonate with the city, and as the fire flows in my veins, so do the
blurred streaks of light throughout the streets, and the growing, blaring sounds of traffic were but a
soft murmur, a lullaby.
It is time. Wings spread, aflame. The people will look up to the charred sky and finally see the stage
concealed by this curtain of blue. This is my inferno, my final act of defiance. To set the world ablaze
is to end myself, but I am prepared.
I can feel time becoming physical, it bends, breaks, and loops back on itself. This is where I stay, in a
fall where I miss the ground. The wind whistles past my ears and smears the world around me, the
city is running paint on a canvas. However, I am no longer part of this composition. I am not the
subject, I am not the paint, and I am not the artist. I am the madman and his flame; burning this
masterpiece.
The invisible hand is helpless, a lost child sobbing for its mother, but these cries of an orphan are
wasted; resounding across the cold concrete, a mute echo. The hand cries wolf, and nothing cries
back.
I’ve crossed the line, the event horizon, I can no longer escape and neither can the city. What was
once a lullaby is now a cacophonic elegy. The smoldering remains of the hand laments and so does
the city, but one mourns the revolution and one mourns the martyr.
The flame has died, and only now may the ashes settle.
Poem by student in English 5
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