Toward the heights of the tower of ivory he climbed,
rising on his waxen wings;
aiming for the heavens,
he swore to make great his name.
a plan both great in aim and folly,
for divinity is not an accomplished feat.
his young body tired, he anxiously gasped for air
as the staples of his wings weakened.
the foundation of his civilization,
of his tower, of reason,
began to corrupt and crumble.
alas, progress refused to come with his struggles.
one last futile pump of the crude wings,
and he tore them from his back.
amidst the agony and fear, for an instant,
he lay completely still. peace.
and then he fell…