“Stages of Grief, In Descension”


Father warned me not to fly too close to the sun long

Before crafting him and I wings, long

Before subjecting him and I to the labyrinth with only

Breadcrumbs and cardinals’ calls and

You, Helios, my sun, for sustenance.


I first felt that brush of fate’s inevitable gaze as my

Cracked fingers struck the last match,

Melted the last drop of wax

Under the gradient pool of dying stars

As I attached the final feather to my right wing.


I hope you are waiting for me in the clouds.

I hope you are reminiscing our time

Our wading through festival crowds, hands held

Our lying on hilltops and reciprocating birdsong

Our ricocheting red words, jaws trembling and shoulders tight.


New Father and I must embark;

The king pursues us. His men are gaining.

Every torch-lit footstep echoing

Through far-off evergreens and Father is

Bellowing the commands I never meant to heed.


Greet me as I fall.

This website uses cookies to ensure site visitors get the best experience on our website. By continuing to use this site, you accept our use of cookies and Privacy Statement. To find out more, please visit Southern University's Privacy Statement.