The Phoenix

Beat to the rhythm.

Tap your toes to the music.

Trapped in these prisms,

This tune is our rhetoric. 

 

Who will speak for us?

What is speech against singing?

Words are all we trust.

Black and white is the writing. 

 

This art, as they say,

Can only be perfection. 

Yes, they get their way.

In the end, it's destruction. 

 

The music will die.

Our hearts will shatter and break.

This new art will lie.

Yes, even music is fake. 

 

Words are all we trust.

In black and white, we shall write. 

Like ashes to dust,

As a Phoenix, we take flight. 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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