THE ICARUS WHO LIVED

Ariful Islam Badhon

It pulled my feathers out of my wings,
The way it pulled me away from those whom I love,
That my feathers never grew again –
Into the holographic shade of dark indigo,
Instead, it became a burnt dusty tan.

No matter how deep I had to cut into my own skin,
And beg for prettier ones,
Still, I stayed –
Dirty looked, under cooked, fishing line without a hook.

I am not a good man or a fine poet,
I’m a horrible poet and even worse of a man.
I write this in a glimpse of a light that never shines,
And a tunnel that never ends,
A poetic goodbye, a bird that flies too high.

And when I fell to the ground,
Every bone in my body was destroyed,
Nobody made a sound.

Now, I am a dead bird,
Roadkill,
Driven to death yet alive.