(Inspired by Beacon Cycles )
Poor Icarus, a victim of your flimsy, failing wings,
Wet wax and feathers, formed in fragile,false facsimile,
Which, in your flight from prison and the vengeance of a king,
Dissolved in sunlight, plunging you to death within the sea.
To perish by this tragic transit seems such wasteful shame,
this sad misguided mechanism aimed unto the skies.
If Dedalus's genius could have gleaned a 10 speed frame,
You would have found you don't require any wings to fly.
