Drank all hours like wine from the sun, So sweet, so strong, so potent– Each drop a golden demand to run. Drank all hours of the morning, It kissed me with deafeningly silent bells, Conjuring a dance to the tune of waking hell. The calendar—divine, lined in white, Where breath is set like votive light. Man has to do, to be, to rise, to climb, As if salvation died in time. And therefore here is I: Veins growing veiled with golden threads, Momentous gift from stars for tears I bled. And yet I smiled, haloed in speed, An undying martyr to momentum’s creed. And therefore here is I: Loved the ache of fractured bones, The hymn of pain, the sacred screech. Oh, what a choir the time has sung, As angels wept for what I had become. I henceforth rise on delicate wings Which are not meant to wear The weight of time too dense to bear. Pity of his legend, Icarus, The demands of his universe Denied him his gravity, Faced the sun and fell with grace. I henceforth rose on brittle wings Which were never meant to wear The weight of time too intense to bear. Pity to yourself, you swain, Consumed by this universe– Mocked you as you fell in moonlit grace, Where death wore a gentle face. He said, “You prayed in movement, child, A saint in devotion, passion defiled. But heaven awaits those who rest— Not those who die in Sunday’s dress.” So, "Let the blind mourn the bright, Who lived as comets, incapacitated in flight. And know that the imprisonment of stillness holds the key To healing the soul freed in productivity."