/həˈmärdēə/
noun
you find glory in the laurels they crown you with: hero. and the blood runs gold, like ichor, like nectar, in the streets and down your sleeves, so heavenly you forget you are human. you rub noses with the impossible, skin your knees on the ineffable as you brandish your sword in the empty atmosphere, you the only one to rise where the air is uninhabitable, you the only one within arm’s length of eden.
when the inventor offers to build you wings, you do not hesitate to shake his hand, sign your name on the dotted line. what more could they want from you, those gods who thought you beautiful in heaven? and if they gave you the keys to eternity so easily, what else would they have you do but reach for the sun?
the smoke floats off the surface of the lake like sweat from skin, the scarlet spills from beneath your armor, and the guilt from the poison feeds the maggots in your throat, in your eyes. the backpackers take pictures and preserve your body on postcards.
we replay the crash-landing, the suicide, the blinding again and again and again from our basements, find ourselves unable to look away from the carnage, enamored, and when the castle crumbles above you and heaven goes up in flames, our heart’s blood runs clear. we were not the reckless ones, only the witnesses. you sit in silent prophecy as we label you and all the others that which was destined to fall, as we carve your names onto the warning signs and lose your legacies in our dreams.
*a fatal flaw leading to the downfall of a tragic hero or heroine