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we lerned how to play,
one letter at a time or
they gets stuck.

badly.
Have you ever thought
that a poet's pen
performs
"open heart "surgery
every time
it writes?
~
When light falls
To horizon’s brink,
Brave legacies rise
From the darkest ink.

When all is dark,
And gold weeps bleak,
Abysmal words
Reflect what we seek.

~
I finally got it in italics!
If I just knew
What the hell I'm supposed to do
I would make my world a small garden
Decorated with diverse flowers
Offering me emotional breeze
Inspiring mental bliss
But the roll of dice
Keeps me wandering the maze of Life
Not knowing what to expect
At the next turn or trail
Just moving about the pathway of Fate
With candles of intuitive faith
Hoping for the best
Pondering over the approaching test
Would I fail or would I pass
If I fail should I give up
To spite my lot
If I pass should I go on to face
Another stream of darkness
The ball is not in my court, it never was
Such is the story of my eyes
Blinded by the rays of mysterious laws
By the mask of unrelenting dawns
Every day, every hour, every moment
I'm faced with new beginnings
That cancel out the layout of my winnings
This is the road I must travel
And encounter sporadic marvel
That entices me to stick to the journey
At times I wonder
Is it better to know or to not know
The answer eludes me
Since I cannot change what is running
Through the branches of my leaves
I shall be content
With the ramification of my weaves.
Lighthouse on a Mountain

There’s a lighthouse on a mountain,
far from any shore
It shines its light, for those who need it more
Blinking and shining, showing them the way
Lighting up their path, to find another day

The mountain is tall, it can be seen for miles
Standing strong and silent, after so many trials
Holding past the test of time, a rock among the years
Showing the way for the weak to face all their fears

The lighthouse stands for all to see
It will guide you to all you dream to be
Follow its light, it shows what’s true
See it shine, it shines for you
There once was a lass
who gazed upon the sky,
like a sailor’s widow
with eyes pining the sea.

A different ocean,
with clouds and birds—
not crests and reflections,
another kind of mirror.

A looking glass, yes:
one reveals past and present,
the other is a blank portal,
not yet formed; possibility.

Burdened by years of earth,
the girl reached up high.
To fly free in the skies,
a plan she did birth:

Simple avian appropriation—
"What could go wrong?"
Manufactured imitation—
"In the skies I belong!"

Remnants of spent candles,
some old pillow filling,
so easily on handle
to construct her wings.

And like that, she flew!
Never close to the sun,
no solar balance due—
destination once begun.

Wise to not create cracks,
a creature in the sky;
falsified wings on her back—
her presence flies on lies.

Nary a muster, ******, or flock
would take this creature in.
Unwelcome, artificial stock:
a lost and confused being.

"I have no nest, no call, no cry,
no wind-song born from feathered kin—
yet higher still I ride the lie,
if not a bird, then what has been?"


Her wings were stitched from want and thread,
a blueprint torn from childhood dreams.
She passed the clouds, yet still she bled—
unseen by all, or so it seems.

"You gave me wax, you gave me fire,
a name I wore, a borrowed skin.
I climbed the hush of false desire—
but never learned the wind within."


{fin}
She Never Fell is a contemporary reinvention of the Icarus myth told through a lyrical, ballad-like structure. It follows a nameless girl who constructs makeshift wings from household materials—spent candles, pillow filling, and broom handles—in an impulsive bid to escape the burdens of earth and ascend into the sky. Unlike the traditional Icarus figure, she does not plummet from the sun, but instead succeeds in her flight, only to find herself isolated, unrecognized, and existentially lost in the very space she longed to inhabit.

The poem unfolds in a linear narrative, beginning with her yearning gaze toward the sky and culminating in a confessional coda from the girl herself. Through a series of stanzas that blend fairy-tale tone with postmodern detachment, the speaker reveals that her wings—and her identity—are borrowed, artificial, and born of haste rather than transformation. Despite achieving flight, she remains alien to the realm she reaches, neither welcomed by birds nor grounded by truth.

The piece was written as a metaphorical exploration of personal appropriation and the illusion of autonomy, inspired by a former partner. The poem critiques the idea of transformation built from borrowed identity—where the tools of liberation (symbolized by fire, wax, and flight) are taken from another without full understanding.

The intent was to invert the Icarus myth: instead of falling from ambition, the protagonist rises—only to discover that success without self-realization yields a different kind of fall. The line “so easily on handle” becomes emblematic of this—the effortless, almost naïve ease with which we reach for escape, without understanding what we're leaving or where we're going.

The poem serves as both a personal reckoning and a broader commentary on the complexities of identity, desire, and the silent costs of artificial ascension.
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