If time were a conceivable form of the mortal anatomy, then Homer was one of the many bronchioles in her lungs. Homer breathed in the existence, emotion and entropy of the Greek Mythological Era. Sipping on strong black tea, and smoking herbs, Homer presented to me an air of communication. It was the clearest incense that held within itself of the essence of Icarus’ life. Everyone knows of Icarus’ demise, but to me, Homer admitted forth the wings’ consciousness. It was to an aolean diatonic scale and a morbid echoing choir wrapped in the chains of the Harp,  that Homer breathed the verses that encompassed the entire flight of the bird, Icarus.


Question basis, question life,
Question cause, question quest.
Question submission, question strife,
Question wrath, question pride.

Icarus did – and devastation answered.
Fiona, first loves and delusions waned.
His luck, beaten out of him, conquered.
Tempest had him engulfed, caned.

Tithonus, silent and seeing,
Icarus, falling and bleeding.
Hope viewed from afar,
Laughing, at his fatal scar.

If only concoctions of confidence,
Were possible to brew.
If only there was an assurance,
But none he found, serene or true.

A desire for the crimson horizon.
An ode to Morpheus, pilgrimage begun,
Shivering, breathing,transcending soul,
Ignoring paternal despair, pursuing goal.

Away flew Icarus,
Pebbles of tears,
Solemn reverence,
For ending sufferance.

Tithonus prayed solemnly, in envy,
As Icarus settled deep in the blue bed.
No cliche smile, noted Poseidon quietly.
A seamless myriad of bleak lives of the dead.


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