My whole life, every flower I saw was Icarus …
And to me, everything and everyone was a flower … really, a flower, a precious flower. I did everything I could. I warned them of the sun. I warned you. I nagged at you until you drooped. I tried to place myself as a shield between you and the sun. I tried to be your visor. But you can’t help everyone at once. You can’t make everyone stay still. Stay still. Behind me, you floated up … up … up. I must caution you, as I caution anything or anyone that tries to open. Follow the fear. Hide in the numbers. Let me catch you. Pluck you. No one needs to make mistakes anymore. None of us needs the pain of learning for ourselves. We have the evidence. The wax will melt. Mine did. My body. Don’t run. I’m here to help. But I can’t move fast. My movements are melted. Why do you keep leaping into the air? It’s the same as being drawn to a certain death that lies beside a warm, comfortable bed, stuffed, fluffed, with the feathers from all our wings. Squished together. Don’t jump on the bed! A bed where we should be lying. And they did not listen. And you did not listen. And when you did not listen, I began to catch you in my big butterfly net. What I mean to say is. To save you. I began to bind you. All. To my beds. I took away your arms and legs (also, your wings). I took away your sight. And you grew happier. I took their away your reason. And you grew happier. But even limbless, thoughtless and blind, you snapped your stamen and crushed your petals as you squirmed towards the certain death of the light.