Poetry - Self

There is a Myth

There is a myth
and a painting
and a poem
that talks about how Icarus fell from the sky
leaving a soft, fool-shaped bruise in the earth
that hardened
and fossilized into stupidity

I guess we are supposed to meander around
with our human noses in the air
having learned something
from it
by pretending
that no one else ever flew too close to hot temptation
or melted their wings on a dream