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Poetry: History



I'll tell you a secret:
           Dedalus lied.
Something did melt,
but it was a wax
the colour of flesh.

The shriek we heard
was not an acknowledgement of
mechanical failure, but of
the sudden blister of retina,
      the swift unravel
of tissue, not from frame,
but from bone.

           What finished
Icarus was
the slithering realisation
that the dream was intact,
and something else
was dying.
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