Phoenix
I’m worn and withered from being this bird.
Of fire and ash, ash and fire.
Over and over, morning-born,
evening ebbing.
Waking up weary in the fluttering, frail flakes
burned paper, song, and skin.
You think you can live again.
But the fire follows
trails of flammable feathers
to outstretched wings.
And here I find
that all things I thought had cracked and
fallen away
Send me screaming, burning, dripping, raw.
Alight again.
This poem is about:
Me