Icarus and the Timebird

When will I be magic?
I pounce, thrash, punch the air.
No refined sugar suffices.

I climb up and up,
Flaring my ire at the staircase. This is how I have to travel now.
I settle for spitting from the roof of the Shaw building.

I miss those wings. I know they were mine.
Maybe it was centuries ago, maybe it was another life.
But at some point I had them.
I have dreams of thermals and tailwinds
And always wake with knotted shoulders.

I am jealous now.
They were mine.

I glare at the clockworks, its sad, sad chiming.
At noon I was a clever prison break.
At three there was hot wax dribbling over my ribs.
I plunged into the ocean, no fins, no gills.

The irresistible sky beckons, scolds,
As though I could will my vertebrae to open into pinions by thinking,
Transform, transform.
Hollow out my bones and float backwards in time.
Believe me, I would.

Atop the Shaw building
I spy on scuttling people, haunt the rafters
And wait for the time to spring up
Into the ozone.