phoenix

like a phoenix with wings of fire, she lays in solitude

eyes closing slowly in this final performance, she is

soon worth as rotting flesh is to man: is this a dream?

she doesn’t remember where she came from, but

the scent of burnt ashes tells her she has arrived again

the cumulation of it all, flames and combustion, washed

away by the tears of all who came before her.

eons upon eons pass by in the blink of an eye,

she awakens to the simmering of trees that light up

the night sky. her face is young, her mind is made up

is it not the naivety of youth that lets the heart wander,

letting it flutter to the cell of those who always crave more