Icarus, scarred With this mess you’re in; With this mess of a guy you are; With this featherless pair of wings unsure to stay behind your back; What would the world make of you? And you, make of the world now? You’re a crushed fowl, on the ground; You’re a dead egg, in the world’s nest; You’re Icarus falling further down further than the real mythical has gotten; Yawp? No use for that now, yawp? Yawp more, and try, to be fooler than a fool? Suns have risen, East to West; Sunshines get duller and just duller as they go; Sorrys go turn to sorrows and searing sobs; So now, what—what now, now that is so? So, and so? What you saw isn’t as it is so.
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