Flying too close to the sun
Then lying panting as I now
Am with broken wing, all
Thoughts of vaunting my
Gladiatorial pretensions have
Faded beneath his causing,
As though He never noticed
Me, scrunched up in
My room reading what
Ever is left. He may not
Notice this reconciliation
As if it stands for all the
Flying I’ve done and
Thinking still to do in
These inept times, and there
Is no one left to compare
Them with. What ever boast
I might think hasn’t wind
Enough in it to be heard
Beyond the room I’ve dithered
To. There is still some
Barking to be done, but not
By me and squawking with
McCaws who voice their own
Version of these times as I descend
And ascend the stairs beyond
My room, as I once approached the
Sun till He wearied and sent me here.
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