There’s no mercy in the darkness,
thick with thieves on every side.
Light is brutal, but its honest
and cathartic when applied.
Better angels, with flight lost to that skyward ruin
and tossed to Earth, where they will surely do in
time, as mortal souls, a dance of celebration
for the humanity of Icarus and his determination
to fly, as they themselves become more luminous beings
having left behind the wry conspiracy of angels wings.
Exhumed, this brute spirit gone,
a convocation of ribs and vertebra,
skull and pelvis, eaten through
by the flukes of your science,
naked in the insult of your light,
waits, through the rough
and twisted skein of history,
stripped of robes, backlit,
blithe to the indigestions of time,
waits, among the artifacts
and empty gourds, the findings
scoured from tombs, the facts
far from truth.
this spirit, estranged in ways
a thousand years could not achieve,
waits, in the stony eye of your conceit,
for the next crossing, the instant
of return, where we might meet,
you going your way, I another.