Phoenix

The day Ella died was the day
The people she hated most changed
The very name she was called
To Cinderella
They made her a girl of dirt and smoke
But, from death, phoenixes rise
And become more beautiful than ever
And at the ball,
She was the bluest phoenix
That ever spread her wings
Dancing in satin feathers
Swirling and scintillating around the floor
Like tendrils of the very smoke from which she'd come
But phoenixes soon fade, and so did she
And once again, she was a child of grime
True to her name
She always hoped that she would
One day rise again
Become that soft periwinkle bird
And fly
And when the prince procured
The very glass that had once graced her foot
She saw a vision, her chance
To be everything she'd ever wished,
And like a bird,
Free
And so she extended her toes,
Gazed into the deep eyes
Of the prince who surely remembered her
And felt her heart shatter
For the shoe did not fit
Although she plead with the prince,
Perhaps her charm at the ball
Was naught but a work of her Godmother's magic
And she was left alone again
She would never rise,
And once again, she remained what she was
A girl of dust and ashes