The Architect of Wax
(A sonnet on the myth of Icarus)
Upon the sun-drenched cliffs of ancient Crete,
A father binds the frame of stolen flight,
To cast away the chains of stone and heat,
And soar beyond the reach of mortal sight.
“Beware the sea,” the elder’s voice does ring,
“And shun the golden furnace of the sky,”
But youth is drunk on every feathered wing,
And craves the realm where only eagles die.
He climbs the blue until the wax begins to weep,
A cooling tear for dreams that burned too bright,
As gravity reclaims the soul to keep,
And plunges hope into the salt and night.
Though oceans hide the boy who dared to fall,
He felt the sun, and that was worth it all.
The Song of Shallow Graves
(A sonnet on the Sirens of the deep)
The salt-cracked timber groans against the tide,
Where jagged rocks are veiled in silver mist,
Below the waves, the ancient secrets hide,
By foam and moon and hungry longing kissed.
They weave a chord that tastes of home and rest,
A phantom light to lead the weary eye,
To pull the heavy heart from out the chest,
And drown the will beneath a violet sky.
No hempen rope can hold the sailor’s bone,
When music carves a path through crashing spray,
To leave the shattered hull to drift alone,
While silence takes the breath of men away.
The sea is vast, and many songs are fair,
But death is all that echoes in the air.
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