Icarus's Ascension

He glared up to the sun, and the sun glared down at him.

High above, forever out of reach.

He knows what it’s like, to be so high there’s no chance of falling.

To be bright, and praised, and hurt those who worshipped you.

He felt the wind in his hair

It was the praise that tickled his ears wherever he walked

Intelligence and goodness mean the same thing, after all.

Especially if there’s no more goodness.

How could it be? How could it be that a letter determined your worth?

D, C, B, A, they’re all our encyclopedia. Couldn’t they all make a beautiful language?

But only A marked his worth-- the highest caliber.

And the mark framed him for all to judge.

The mark painted him black, complete success, with no more white.

He scrubbed his skin for room to grow, but his hands were slapped away.

Morals were out, success was in.

Never change, never try, they said he was perfect

Perfection hurt,

But at this height, falling would be painless.

Icarus spread his wings from his tower,

Ignoring the riot below him. The ones who had pushed him off now called him back.

From this high, their calls were whispers,

Less than wind to him.

He looked up to the sun again, 

And fell,

A blind father’s voice cried out,

Lost in the sea of chatter.