Odyssey of a dripping Icarus

The Fine Art of Surfacing

Submerged,
waiting what seemed an eternity
for the light to break the surface
of a self-made sea and its in-flux,
sparkling map of in-consequence,
knowing no Cousteau by chance
would discover me, barnacle clad
below leagues quietly conspiring
to keep me a secret from the sun,
from the firm of land beneath feet,
from the brine kissed sweet of air,
slowly emerging from dark depths
along the soft shone paved shafts
of luminous paths leading the way
away from fathoms' water bondage,
free to wander all the seven oceans,
an Odyssey awaiting never-ending,
manumit to fashion wings of wax,
a still dripping Icarus aloft at last.