a dot on the map,
a seaside town,
barefoot I walk,
familiar faces all around.

the winds carry whispers of the tales that are spun,
the doors are always open,
life’s a stroll, not a run.

everyone’s someone’s daughter,
or someone’s son,
names carry weight,
dreams carry some.

they said aim for the stars,
so I aimed for the sun.
“just another Icarus?”
“or could she be the one?”

“why leave paradise,
for which countless yearn?”
because Icarus would’ve soared,
even if he’d known he’d burn.