The Phoenix

They never mention the blinding, searing pain

of disintegrating skin

Falling away from ashen bone

The brief, but brutal mourning

for the life departing

The rebirth is a new spring

New hope painted onto clear skies

An empty canvas to be filled

With want and glory

Every time she rises once more

An ethereal form from the ashes

She is more beautiful

Filled with greater strength and purpose

Certain that this will be the last

The final form

The meticulously drafted version

of herself

At last she could be done

with the burning, and reviving

With the drowning flame

Searing and reforming her shape

Again. Again. Again.

But every new hope

Is seared at the edges

And each new beginning

Always circles back to itself

An ouroboros

An endless chasing of dreams

And no matter how she tries

To dance in water

To dream in dew and grass

The fire always find her again.

And she is lost and found

and lost again

to the flames.