After Herbert James Draper’s The Lament for Icarus, 1898
He looks at peace.
At rest.
No wax scorched skin,
no broken wings.
No sign of a violent fall.
He looks at peace.
No sign of a father looking for him,
No rumoured reach from a god above
(one of which people like to dream about).
No vindictive grin at setting the world around him ablaze.
He looks at peace.
Large gorgeous wings of paradise
Strapped loosely to his arms.
Untouched and perfect,
They could envelop him like a blanket.
He looks at peace.
On nymph perches on a rock looking up,
One cradles him with unknown delicacy,
The last leans over her shoulder with a lyre.
Did they fish him from the sea?
He looks at peace.
To “live fast, die young
and leave a beautiful corpse.”
Revived again and again and again,
So is he ever truly dead?
He looks at peace.
Featured image held in the public domain via Wikimedia.
