Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

Last Chance #13

This fracture of a second when the spicy bitter clove hit the back of my tongue..
How come?
No one told me the secret for so long?
Involuntarily laughing, joyous to be suffocated in pollen.
To the sun that played a thrill on my expense, my wings, so I glided on this thermal wave of fresh air instead of sitting in despair, I was about just about to sip some nectar but nature demanded me once more to fly, so I fly, I always fly.
Icarus had accompanied my attempt, every attempt.. he didn’t seem as hesitant as I had imagined. Insured, assured whatever, by multiple mistakes and a callused hard-ground experience.
Equipped with blossom particles and some ridiculous advantages, we’ve turned shameless, to enjoy what’s to suffer.
Pulled over by gravity, sustained irreproachability, is that even a word to be spoken or a mere action to be taken, we fly! Such a cliché. This Icarus legend was chewed in Swiss safe libraries and remained dusty, pitted, unpermitted. So many cliffs!
Vocabulary expanded into an un-flat world, horizon is begging but wings are forbidden in a crowded scene, flapping Honey-Sucker, drinking lemon juice in someone else's nest.
What a waste, what a rhyme to be skipped like a dead-end sign was multiplied by a repetitive show of a flightless mind.
Mind your show, show your mind nature called via tornado and we have all been looking at each other holding Icaurs legend summaries, untrained to follow this thermal heat flow that…