Don't burn the flag. Wash it!
This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO
FROM RHOSSILI DOWN
The modern IcarusLacks the technologyTo fly too near the sun.His imaginationIs horizontal,Beneath stiff wingsHe launches outInto the blue of the bayAnd looks downOn the inconsequential dotsLost on the expanse of sand below.But his freedomIs an illusion.He lifts and soars onlyWhere the wind wills.LaterWalkers pass him byAs he limps along the beachTrailing his clumsy apparatus behind him,Like a bedraggled swanTrailing a broken wing.They sympathiseWith his predicamentAnd carry on,Talking about wingsThey'll never try.
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