Autumn Bartle
Haven’t you noticed
The heroes we dream of becoming
Are the ones in stories of tragic flaws and short-lived joy,
Not dancing in the orchestra?
We hope to embody the heroes standing center-stage
Flaws and all, vulnerable to the crowd
Accepting each fall, each failure with hope
Striding into their tragedies, masks tumbling off the stage.
For what life do you live
If it is one of suffocation behind the mask of feigned contentment?
How could it be a hamartia, a wounded heel to care?
We stand in the chorus of appalled bystanders pretending not to want a spectacle of our own
The unnamed, masked faces warn of my certain exodos
But how can I reach Sicily without a detour through Crete?
For the ones who succeed are the ones to show their face, step out from this mask,
Risk the failure in hopes of success.
For who remembers a face always hidden?
For who would read of Phobos rather than Icarus?
I will skip hand-in-hand, dance that daunting path joyously with the furies
To meet Thanatos
For I’d rather experience that catharsis in the now than dwell on the comforting prologue.
Though Icarus’ journey was his last
An end of loss, melted wings, burnt flesh
Of confidence, of believing enough in freedom to risk life itself
He learned not to simply survive but to soar
To sip and savor that intoxicating freedom like Dionysus,
To throw his head back like Gelos.
Now, they can use me as a cautionary tale as they do Icarus,
But above all in life
I long to soar as Icarus did.
To rip off my mask and cackle with the maenads.
Even if just for a moment,
I wish to see my feet leave my exile, feel the sun on my face,
To feel that wind beneath my wings.