Icarus. Face the sun. No wings. Just exposure. We turn our faces to light. Glass reflection. Perfect angle. A small glare hiding the cracks. We don’t ask: am I alive? We ask: did you see it? Icarus! Face the sun. Seen is the metric. Hurt is the price. Icarus! Face the sun. We call it living while we burn out in light. Hands shaking, still we hold the pose. Heat on skin, applause in numbers. Wings made of almost. Wings made of just one more. And we don’t notice the drip until the room smells like loss. Icarus! Face the sun. Seen is the metric. Hurt is the price. Icarus! Face the sun. We call it living while we burn out in light. Exposure rising. Focus locked. Pain dismissed. Name preserved. Smile steady. Voice steady. Inside: melt. Self-sacrifice. Rot. For nothing. For nothing. Icarus! Face the sun. Seen is the metric. Hurt is the price. Icarus! Face the sun. We call it living while we rot in light. Icarus was never a hero. Just a warning label we learned to skip.
