they say the heliades cried tears of amber
when phaethon was struck down;
is that why august’s meteors
streak so fiercely outside my window?

each fire trail paints the pre-dawn sky,
a wake of grief
trailing a dreamer like me.

a man so confident in his dreaming,
caution long-lost to the wind
and pride a balm for the soul;
yet, even in hubris,
the world wept for him.

each streak a quiet verdict,
cast from a court older than constellations;
i lie still under their judgement,
unsure if fire is my blessing
or my sentence.

gazing toward tears of old,
i wonder if i deserve the same sky,
or if my fall will come without witness.

perhaps the world weeps only for those
who dare to blaze as they fall;
who shed their regrets with a wild laugh
and stagger, living each day as their last.

do i stumble through life
as phaethon did, piloting my own chariot
fueled by a distant dream
i can never cradle in both hands?

do i demand proof i lived
like a son begging for his name,
racing through my years with a dim hope
that tears of amber may be cried for me?

or do i take the skies with a lust for living,
wielding fire that may burn the heavens
atop a chariot destined to freeze?

i point my camera to those fiery streaks,
capturing a flicker of cosmic history,
the most confident hubris i’ve ever known,
mind wandering to the day the heliades
decide whether my brief light was worth their grief.