The Human Drive

I’ll sit & watch…
The smooth gentle sway
Of dune grass ruffled wind
Feel old fear
Melt through waves
—Warming blood & skin

I sense the ocean calling here
That conscience sound within
A love that seldom seems to fly
When driven to just live

Dædalus

…I believe that prison tower confining your physical freedom stood stuccoed pale ivory and flaking; drab in comparison to having built a structurally sound edifice—to entrap others lost within its maddening labyrinth—predicated upon your slipping into irony’s goat-skinned moccasins…

Thus made to walk the remaining measured steps of life not unlike your meandering victim’s did in their ensnared shoes…

However; you dream a way out—a series of epiphanies all knowing well the potential catastrophes ensuing possible design flaws…

Having reasoned obsessively; then learning to soar through selfsame determination—

As simple as water flow,
Rivulets turning back upon themselves
Beginning to end one; or nature’s inspiration
Out of the very flight of birds
Perhaps traversing over a security moat
& drawbridge

Such wanton ingenuity ultimately kills your beloved young son who wanted to be like his father; dead at the hands of his old man’s invention.

A few shed feathers floating upon the seas’s surface tension marking the crash site.

Later in life, you attempt to murder your brightest protégé: out of envy for being second woven wicker fiddle chair—that pent rage of being out shined from inferior self-concept (it was all too much indeed).

So, how did you live with yourself?  Your namesake and legacy revered, many times over, most notably in James Joyce’s masterpiece (he suffered beholden & led by your bullshit). Moreover lost in multifaceted holographic air and light, chimeras of meaning and language cast into words through time fashioned hooks, lines, and baited yet reeling back nyet.

                                                                    But when my mother died. Not only did I kneel (non-believing at the time), I soon thereafter heaved that burden of erudite garbage out that pigeon grey smashed window of reality—which held me mentally captive in a tower not unlike the two of you;

a golden red-faced American finch perched upon that ledge the second it reopened, and while secured yet unmoved, my mind finally freed itself.

 

Malignant Heart

I had a malignant heart
Past beating to decay
Fire filled its pulsing chambers
Purged my coursing veins

Hopelessness and self-contempt
Died among those flames…
And while no phoenix ever rose
Nor any angel’s face did show
I felt self-love regained