Within sight of the blue of the sky,
with meadow scents and the song of birds
as the gradient slackened, he looked back to find
more emptiness than he thought earth held.
In this version of the myth
we leave him there, helpless and blind,
skimming for worms in the topsoil, cursed
with shovels that can’t even hold a lyre.
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Putting this story (and myself) to bed. The submitting fun begins tomorrow.
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