In gossamer whispers, the brittle sun beckons
Icarus, whose wings are forgotten notes from the past,
serenading the abyss, spiraling up
where the gods breathe and the wildflowers sweep.
Truth languishes in midnight petals,
their soft blush clutching an erratic rhyme,
as dreams weave through stardust,
tracing tales of wax and whispering promises.
Ponder the flights of pollen,
the celestial fugue they cannot escape,
perched forever between cradle and kaleidoscope
whispering untruths that echo like
beguiling butterflies adrift in the empyrean haze.
Perhaps one day they shall remember
the ambition hidden beneath their fractured lullaby,
in the quiet revolt of each relentless rising sun
weaving destinies among the shadows of the fall
or flirting with the voltage of tomorrow's rain.