Sunburnt

Your dreams

shrank in the wash twenty Tuesdays ago

and you can't afford new ones.

You inhaled tales of Icarus, the sun

was a distant lover you would someday kiss

and in those moments, clutching life by the 

babyfat, it was impossible to miss.

Except the years become mudslides and

the truth of life is

da Vinci died before invention of

human flight.

Wax dripped and dried and feathers

pulled from the down pillows you dreamed on top of

were factory manufactured perfection for sleep,

not soaring.

The wings never worked and failed fantasies grew boring

so you took them out to the seaside and

pitched them out like skipping stones,

buried them in the sands next to Icarus's bones,

bleached and burnt and still

whispering of the sky.