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PhoenicarusGather your wits as youve gathered these feathers, son Icarus
Clearly he was mad enough to send his heir flying as well
Down to hell
Both moon and trepidation had waned since pens and wax went up
Now he raised his cup
To life, to freedom, to us, he his gesture harshly graced
As he sun-ward faced
A Child of his fathers device, red and golden in the rising sun
Help he shun
To shoulder that atrocity against natures chosen path - a pair of wings
As legend sings
Bar his fathers guidance and the flapping beatings, he did it himself
Thrown off the shelf
At first he fell with the heart-broken scream of a newborn child
Free and wild
No longer pregnant with thought, No strings attached
The egg hatched
Off they flew, off the cliff, off the island of safe incarceration
Full of motivation
Thou shant soar too high nor swoop too low was Daedalus advice
By youth despised
Then as now, apt pupils tur
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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