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

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