he's always been the type of boy to fade away,
unnoticed into the corners of red-brick high schools.
even his friends don't know the color of his eyes,
can't remember if he likes to dance.

but he's always wanted to be someone, so he
straps on wings made of feathers borrowed from
real live birds. (only he had to kill them
in order to take their beauty.) (it's for a good cause,
though, so don't worry.)

he gets a good running start, leaps from the edge
and soars on stolen creativity, flies oh-so high,
far above the meandering businessmen
with their armani suits and expensive watches.

he laughs harder, harder, because they don't see him,
they don't even see him and he's everything they want to be.

he needs to go higher - he needs to go higher -
he flies, flies, FLIES, he never knew he could feel so
beautifully warm, so exuberant, ecstatic. after so long
spent hiding away in the shadows of darkened playgrounds and
cheap cigarettes, the sun is unexpected,
intoxicating. is it any wonder he's so caught up
in his own success? he can't bring himself to give up his
newfound freedom, so instead he lifts his face to the clouds, and

(icarus burns.)