There must be something clutching the foot of Icarus;retracting him back towards his towering fate.It\'s that concrete umbrella veiling the eyes of outcasts. That dailyconfessional with condemnatory barscast across convicted boogiemen.And so, my cousin has been seven years late \nfor Christmas dinner. His lead tears were never unloaded\nupon handkerchief shoulders or those with soft paper smiles.\nKid Icarus merely found pastimes between his father\'s\nlabored distractions and clouded affairs. \nAnd just as pots under grandmother\'s leaky roof knock with tin beats,\nso too did his pockets overflow with words nearly muffled.\nNow with weighted hands,\nthe only visitors are centipedes and mice.\n\nAt the shout of each morning alarm\nhe shivers polaroid feathers, still undeveloped.\nA sun-beamed window prepares delusions that fall\noutsidehis view. It\'s that mid-day heat\nfor whom summer beauties exist in skin,\nOr that moistened front yard morning\nwhere clouds drift through the palms of tree tops,\nand children whirl in garden hose warfare. Spring resist\nthe wrapping of these frozen walls and county blues. \n\nReality displays the framework of his arms, now occupied\nwith walkman-inked engravings: telegrammed portraits\nwaiting to embrace the dawn. But away from this coop\nhe\'ll find that freedom is often too wide to hold.\n\nWith blind eyes he climbs towards a distant sun,\nwho\'s just as lonely as he is.\nSo I pray for the proper blessing over those\nwho attempt to soar with stone sculpted wings,\nhoping that when heaven falls\nit lands upon outstretched palms. day, from, happy, manila, ryce, saint, valentine's