Like the sun’s
breaking the morning horizon,
[momentarily]
blinding us with the
blaze of its glory–
So we seemed to become
aware of each other–
of Life, of Love, of Joy.
We saw our path clear,
our destination unknown,
and we, uncaring of such,
only exalted in the journey,
my hand in yours,
yours in mine,
the invisible
visible once more–
Heaven at our fingertips...
but mere mortals can’t
touch the sun,
Dear Icarus,
nor are feathers and wax that
of which angels’ wings are formed.
At sun's setting,
we’re left only the drear of
each progressive frustration,
confusingly set alongside the
[agonizing]
glimpse of God–
left wondering...
Which was the greater illusion?
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