if we had wings to fly

Much like Icarus, off they go;
until condensation metes them
reality’s condescension:

Whose goals and objectives
are minute in life’s greater scheme;
wings fashioned from floss harps-

Yet they soar each firmament;
nary a doubt would sway resolve;
no tempest or tumult could dissuade.

If  you chance upon a cloudless day
catch their echo of jubilant cries
and contemplate your turn to fly.