The Cost in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

You smell of lilacs in March.

I recall so vividly how nothing I could ever have fathomed in my mind would do justice to your soft smile.

You coax from me energy so easily that it feels somehow there is a never ending supply.

That’s not true, of course, as you are costly.

There’s nothing free about you, sadly.

I learn this everytime I get close.

Do not my datling Icarus fly quite so nigh the center star, the Sun will surely burn you no matter how bright you shine in the glow.

No matter how expertly you fly.

There is always unintended consequence.

There is always a price for shooting so hard so quickly across the vast chasm of this coronavirus life’s sky.

I would have given you everything.

The problem is you devour me greedily.

Until I no longer quite sparkle beneath your shine.

Icarus is not real, silly, and all that matters to you is what’s immediate. What suits your impulse. Sates your gluttonous hunger. Makes you feel alive.

No matter the cost.

No matter the sacrifice.

You keep eating.

Devouring.

Gluttony.

Everything.

Just to feel something.

Just to feel alive.

March 18, 2020

Last updated March 19, 2020