As the Wings of Icarus...

In this moment, to know that should we see the horizon it would be our end, that the stars fall for naught but the chaos in our hearts, and that the days we miss were never lived, is nothing more than the edge of the abyss. Brought to our knees for the sake of tomorrows never desired, but begged for the yesterdays we always dreamed; we live a contradiction. Nostalgic regret lost to the undertow. You can whisper the incision; the breath, soft from your lip, cutting reality like a tapestry worn thin by antiquity. Rise again, the swells upon the sea, should the tides claim Icarus or stray he too close to the sun? Fall again, like Sisyphus to try futility until the redundant runs dry. Life is a satire for which there is no humour... stood tall again to stare into the dawn, realizing far too late that the sun is setting. Moonlight benediction, for the owls catch mice, the serpent messiah all but forgotten. Cascade this pallor, for the libertine now bathes in turpentine. Paid penance for a sin not committed, forgiven for the stain of living. Baptised in blood, borne again by the new religion, this aristocracy of liars and thieves. Heresy to call out their humanity. Cardinal? I'd call him Chthonian. Should Welkin ever kiss his feet, the burnt grass would show our caste from Eden. Treading, instead, on the simple ground because the secular is bound to the real. Should they dilute truth with fiction would but insult the awe of the tangible, and undercut the value of existence. Oh, what an oxymoron to claim humility and insight into creation.  To make yourselves extraterrestrial is to ignore the very ills of the soul, and to make outcast the ones who most need love... Their divinity lost to the blasphemy. So vain to feign confidence? So simple though, the eye of the wandering spirit. Reverie made of a supernal kiss... what an oneiric moment that would be. Belied to say that the heart does not go wanting... but of days that will never come are the dreams of lost souls made.