Ripeness Is All

Icarus,
Without the fated plunge,
Is but a dreary grey-haired parable,
Pragmatic unremarkable commute,
Recklessness is crucial, 
The brazen rise to kiss Apollo,
Weaves the gossamer of myth;
 
In flushed freewheel of youth,
Vital abandon strains, 
Frothing fervid at the bit, 
How easy to hold living light,
While dew lies wet on years,
Lightning racks the fertile mind,
Thunder echoes in the blood;
 
Oh to be bold before life’s furnace!
Plunging ungloved hands,
To snatch the burning things, 
Luminous with dancing heat, 
While older souls shrink back,
Scorched before and wary,
Scarred deep upon their zeal;
 
The cord frays at both ends,
Delirium may seize the light,
And leaden blood alike,
Of many cellared bottles some,
Burst volatile in raw ferment,
Others slide to vinegary ends,
Though everything has beauty in its time;
 
Fresh, furious Galoir,
Cast life to honour’s fancy,
Bled to death at dawn,
Mind spilling subtle theorems,  
Succumbed, splayed weightless,
Prodigious flair flickering to black,
Suspended, neither child nor man;
 
Weary, faded Lear,
Cuts borne from being,
Bloodied under foolish years,
Back bowed below dumb pride,
Ripeness hanging by a thread,
The mighty question asked by death,
Rising to cacophonous apex;
 
There is a time to plough, 
Youth’s fragrant field,
Beneath the unrelenting sun,
To lay the furrows down,
Wager callow capital,
On wisdom’s bittersweet demands,
To ring the bell that cannot be unrung.