Sticks and stones,

have broken my bones.

And words

are metal shards embedded within my skin.

Some nights they are the structure of my (unfatal) Icarus wings.

And most, they are the walls of the Daedalus labyrinth in my veins.

 

Melted wax feathers,

find their way between my fingers.

And sundrops are the ink that they provide.

My hand writes stacks of parchment skies,

before lightspeed words can reach my mind.

 

A maze leads to my heart of steel,

and my arteries are pulled apart-- molten,

and strung into cursive.

The taurus roars behind his cage and I hear nothing--

Iron bars are paper thin, but they hold my thoughts of ink.

I return to the confines of my inventions and mechanics, because

the sun turned my son into broken words and wings.

 

Yet the legends and tales, the pain and the Scales,

bring me to write, write, write again.

I write the hunted birds upon my shoulders,

I write the broken feathers that I have formed,

I write the runes of the labyrinth lost,

I write the story of my sunset child,

and my words hide beneath my world.

My history shall be held in my page’s trust.