The Phoenix
A phoenix falls upon her broken wing, cradled feathers burn and solemn sings of lives and deaths, a million kinds, vermillion hearts and aches and minds; of misery and ecstasy and all that it entails, alone she keens aflame til embers pale. And when all, and ails are dark and dust on blackened pavement diamonds in the rough Enchanted, She combusts and returns again, like iron always wrought and rust and rustle; the hymns and hallowed halls and bustle. Accursed, but incessant in her fight She bends her knees, ignites her wings, takes flight