Daedalus

I hate that 
Icarus gets all the ink. 
His hubris penned down for eternity while 
His scorched flesh watched on. 

But never is it Daedalus. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus. 

He whose only thought is of memory, 
Of feathers floating on the surface of majestic blue waters, 
Waves moving like music. 

And perhaps now he wishes he hadn't left. 
Perhaps he wishes for prison, for confinement to the grey brick walls 
Would surely be more comfort than the prison of his mind. 

And he might sometimes still walk the sandy shores and miss it all. 
His son, his wings, his flaws. 
And still he waits. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus.