On a rooftop in the Renaissance city,
Stood a man, an inventor, an adventurer.
Fastidiously fashioned wings of fabric
Gusted him off the certainty of cement
Into the sky’s embrace that’d evaded him long;
Surmising the feat forbidden to man: Flight.
Towards the horizon, unparalleled,
Cruising over chaos and discord, also
Defying gravity whilst dispelling darkness’
The way science propels mankind forward;
This time in the form of flying flaps, flaring
Testimony to: the sky is no more the limit.
A condescending view beckoned.
Now as free as his feathered friend,
His ego towered as high as it’d longed.
The naysayers as mute as should be and
The disbelievers as blind to the sky, now
Beneath his feet, where they belonged.
In his grasp was the whole realm and its mortals.
Flipping through its pages like a book:
Fancy the shoes of its writer, the writer.
Trespassing into the abode of the gods,
He knew he could not ever again call
Anyplace else his home and hearth.
Birds, black as they were from hell,
Flew at him from the cathedral.
A glimpse of the cross, loured as he fell
As if by the wrath of the gods ‘emselves.
Locked out of heaven he felt, as the fate
Of any seeker, who knew too much befell.
Crashing through the thicket, landing in
The lake of fire; dreaded was the descent;
Albeit a spiteful splinter jammed midcalf,
Back to his lab again he made, and even
As he staggered along the sidewalk,
He never really did touch down.