Down to Scraps
You would charge into the end with a lopsided grin.
You believe in sacred lasts, you
with the audacity of fresh eyes
recite an atheist’s prayer
and know you will never swing low
Was it my heart or my son,
the Gods called Icarus?
Down to Scraps
You would charge into the end with a lopsided grin.
You believe in sacred lasts, you
with the audacity of fresh eyes
recite an atheist’s prayer
and know you will never swing low
Was it my heart or my son,
the Gods called Icarus?