Icarus in Leather
He strapped his wings on tight and lit the whole street up,
said the sun was just a challenge, drank the fire cup,
every scar he wore like jewelry bolted to his chest—
every warning sign an invitation to the test.
He strapped his wings on tight and lit the whole street up,
said the sun was just a challenge, drank the fire cup,
every scar he wore like jewelry bolted to his chest—
every warning sign an invitation to the test.
Twenty-two, bulletproof, running hot,
spent his paychecks on the lifestyle and the parking lot,
women screamed his title from balconies at midnight black,
he never even bothered once to look straight back.
Now he’s forty-three, quiet in a smaller town,
still wearing that same jacket from the day he came down,
tells the record to whoever’s at the bar that late—
the heat, the speed, how close he got, the way it felt to wait.
Give the man his credit for the flight he had,
most people never get that high or that bad,
Icarus in leather with the singed and broken wings,
at least he got to feel what burning brings.