you pray for the cure at dawn whilst the light melts off your skin.
Icarus, hopeless bird-child,
you put a knife in your back, twist,
fall off a bridge to vex the sun, tranquil.
It is meaningless
whatever you decide to do.
Shame clouds your judgement now, it consumes you as
you feed on your soul, always: search for the heart.
Thoughts destroy structure —
on a moonless night, with two dark stars,
they are the makers of the world.
Laura Izabela is a vagabond, writer and poet, currently living in London, UK. Not much to her name but a big coat, an infinite soul and some paper. Find her on Twitter at @lauraizm17.