A Broken Icarus

Years spent stumbling through drug dens, dive bars, and flop houses,
experiencing the highest highs and lowest lows,
sticking out like blood stains on white blouses,
everyone sees and everyone knows.

But nobody says a word,
not even one,
while you flew like a bird,
Icarus nearing the sun.

Too many times falling with singed wings,
but never quite crashing,
always managing a final flutter with those broken things,
as your life starts flashing.

How man times can you relearn to fly,
away from a world of inebriation,
and do your best to scrape by,
without naming the sun as your last destination?

icarus 2.jpg

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