Atone.
This is the burden of an Icarus that was cast into the sun.
How strange how strange it is to be the smoke and then the gun.
For this the plight of a lovers blaze, of wings thought angel caught aflame.
Just because one\'s intentions light doesn\'t mean they cannot maim.
And as I pluck the charred remains of feathers burnt to crisp.
I lament a loss that is not mine.
I lament a loss that I had spent.
Sure my intent is better now, shining with knowledge freshly found.
But what is lost is quiet now.
Only it is free to make a sound.
It is simply an aim I call out towards.
An aim true, this time I\'m sure.
But it is bred in another world, where the sea must touch the shore.
I cannot go attack the sea.
Not only foolish, it brings naught…
Instead one must respect what is, and respect what has been wrought.
No, the waters be respected.
And may the waves be true.
But god I hope I have not poisoned what I dreamt the purest blue.