Icarus

Ravines pull you under and shake you down to the earth, with the aspiration of making you more than you are. You fall from your sun flight, and give up your ambitions for the stars. Mother needs you so much closer. Parenthood reeks of Stockholm’s Syndrome, as genealogy weaves trees of requirement into love, writing in gold leaf, “proximity breeds intimacy.” The world quakes as you build rockets to escape, it melts if only to convince you to stay. The gods already forgone their allegiances to the material, and in doing so, have transcended into the divine. Humans are not so easily torn away — for what would they say about the children who did not care? Space distances itself further and further. Soon, all the lights in the sky will be too far away to see, and you will have given up all your dreams for a spinning rock who screams when you leave.