Phoenix
Silver droplet of frozen tears,
You are the precursor of immortality.
Called upon by the grief of a clock wound down,
your helix settles against the rhythm of tragedy.
The soft clay conduit in the driver’s seat no longer calls for hopeless pity,
but instead casts shadow through a torrential feedback loop.
Nature laughs at the folly.
As she is bound to do,
she mocks her descent with playful colors and painted corpses.
The Cirque du Soleil farewell carefully skates around morbid fears
and opens her heart of vulnerable truth.
As the parade of silk-lined skeletons pass by the frosted windows,
they reach out their hands in passionate displays of merciful guidance.
A crescendo of music and anxious anticipation
reach the top of the hill at the same time.
There is nothing left to do but wave.
The ground drops beneath the frozen hearse in a cloud of hazel mist,
and since there is no where left to go but down,
the icy heart explodes as an act of self preservation—
All that is left is fire.
Stars sprint across the sky and a glowing red moon
reveals itself from beyond the shadows.
The clay emerges from this makeshift kiln of primal passion,
hardened form shaped by Vulcan.
Feathery wings of smoke billow from its spine
as it finds dominion over the sunken land.
The king will guide himself through the flames;
rebirth requires no subject.
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