Poem-A-Day: Day 47

Wings of Wax

Indiscretion is the name
of this sinking ship
bound for ports of call.
S.S. Stuttering to a stop,
dead in the sea of unwashed faces
gracing one winged beauty back.
Angels refusing to fly
because they can’t hold hands,
and instead choose the path
of Icarus descending
down into the ocean;
blue and fervent angry sea.

It’s not the falling that hurts,
it’s sticking the landing
that kills,
shattering knees,
and tugging at the heartstrings
in some sad attempt to release the chute.
It will open,
if only too late.
But the water is soft
compared to the feathers of the wing
that tears to shreds
the finale of thoughts that bleed the ocean red.