A grey, haggard dawn.
Already you struggle with the rebirth
It almost seemed that the impetuous
rush, the flash flood of consciousness,
had lifted you so high that you
could hear the very conversation
of the gods.
Now your ears are beset with jeering echoes
of bitter words, silent, scathing judgments
from tongues the earth has stilled.
The empty city spreads like a mausoleum
around you, its indifferent streets sprawling.
The winds keen scalpel probes the shallow
skin of clothing, insufficient to preserve your
bodys dwindling heat.
Still you know that you can purchase
yet another dose of freedom from
the curse of ailing flesh. Icarus fell
only once from the zenith of his sky.
The gods in their mercy allowed
him to die.