Melted Icarus

Елена Милосављевић III3



Gentle years, flaming souls, pick up your words

Don’t talk to me in that reckless tone

Because soon enough your underlines will throw me to the wall

And my life sophistication will shatter

Down below the next column


Feelings that burn, burst under my core

In need of kindness I become a theatre doll

Begging your pardon, begging for your ovations

Locked up in an invisible box

I hurt – you heal – manipulation grows


If Icarus had known about you

He would have stayed sticked to the ground

Never would have flown too far

A single glance would have melted him, my Sun