Phoenix in the Ashes?
That dirge to the heartbreak of loss,
“Ashes of Life” echoes in my mind of late:
“Love has gone and left me
And the days are all alike”
I
wallowing,
sunk in my sackcloth and ashes…

No flaming garb of vibrant red, instead shades of grey and black course coal
serve as my meager cloak & bed.
Those tongues of fire were so enchanting...
Now their bright blazing flames have died;
as smoke-filled skies remain to choke my breath–ashen
asphyxiation.
Amid charred lifeless trunks which
bely past vibrant verdant days
I wander awaiting years gone grey, a future
to further lay waste & topple the broken snags–to earth returned. . .
wait
a pause. . .
A glint of ruby red!
a single feather surviving?
molten scarlet letter “A” to lift from the ****?
witch who will not be burned up,
who cannot be consumed?
Has that resilient phoenix truly met a last cremation?
Or will her red wings yet arise renewed
Up from the “Ashes of Life”?

The pain
that tears through my chest,
from top to bottom—
there are no words
to truly describe it.

It is only
pain.

A thousand people in a street,
A thousand eyes that’ll meet—
A million personalities in a street,

Some to work,
Some to school,
Some to steal,
Some to fool,

Few are drunk,
Few are poor,
Few to lie,
Few to fly.

A thousand sighs in a street,
A thousand sorrows to tolerate,
A million stories incomplete—

Few slept deep
Few wept in a sheet.

Few to study,
Few to work.

A thousand people in a street.
A thousand griefs that repeat,
A million hearts that skip a beat—

Shoot the bird in the foot
Let the sin drip down your chin
You've downed your prey
And held them at bay.
Now sink your fangs into flesh and blood
And pierce the veins
With their flowing crimson.

The mess before you
Feathers strewn about
Clean and white and dotted with red.
Doesn't their fear astound you
The beating of a heart in their breast
Dark eye does dart around
And nails scratch for any grip.

Don't you tear into them more
And revel at the meal?
The way their screams part from their lips
Like an innocent bird
What have they done to deserve this?

Mortal bones break
Mortal flesh tears
Mortal blood does weep.
Does the crimson not shine in the light
Like an expensive wine in a fantasy's delight?

It's blue inside
Not red.
It's white
Not red.
The flesh falling away from the bone
With phalanges exposed to the cold night air.
I saw it happen,
When you peeled the skin away
The layer of white like that of a peeled apple
being prepared for a pie.

When you pierced the cheek with your sharp white points.
When your lips graced the curve of the neck and suckled until crimson spilled.
The velvety black inside your mouth,
Corrupted with the scarlet red
of fresh blood from the vein in which it came.

Does it not bother you?
When you dismantle your prey as though you are a bird of the night
And them a sleepy songbird wishing for a roost?

Hunger.
It must burden you so
To blink when a heart beats and roars
And to hold back the tempest inside
Lest you expose your most private secret in front of the crowds.
How I wish it does so.
Forever.
May you never feel the joy of taking the lives of them all at once.
May you cower in the darkness
And hide within the deepest shadows
Not because the sunlight burns,
No, because the men will hunt you and make your kind known as they sharpen their wooden spears.
And none of you will be safe again.

Bleed your bird
Drain your victim
They are perhaps helpless alone
But the cluster of many is the terror you shall know, forevermore.

Still eyes did look into the skies,
A mother did weep.

Little hands still cling to her fingers,
A mother did keep.

Still warm, a body did lay,
A father did dig deep.

Little hope did not dwindle,
A father did keep.

The clouds came down from the sky
They rolled over the hills
And decimated cities,
When the derecho came.

How tragic is it?

We all yearn for the same thing

Love.

Yet we fail to offer it.

Not to others. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all hurting for the same reason.

Our desires are identical.

But we choose to endure the pain

and let those around us suffer as well.

We hold back love,

then lament that we never receive it.

How tragic.

Everyone defines love differently.

But at its essence

we all crave the same thing.

Yet we’re molded to believe in varying forms of it.

And now,

we neither know how to give it

nor how to accept it.

How tragic.

We fail to find love

in our own homes,

in our own circles.

So we search for it

in strangers,

in fleeting encounters,

in harmful places.

How tragic.

We live in a breathtaking world,

yet we seek beauty

in someone’s thoughts,

in a verse of poetry,

in the pages of a book.

We discover love

only in ink and paper,

and the more we uncover it there,

the more it pains us.

Every day.

With every passing moment.

How tragic.

We lack the one thing

we need most

the very thing

that defines

our humanity.

How pathetic is it?
We all long for the same thing
Love.
Yet we don’t give it.
Not to each other. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all suffering for the same reason.
Our needs are the same.
But we choose to suffer
and let those around us suffer too.

We withhold love,
then complain that we never receive it.
How pathetic.

Everyone has their own definition of love.
But at the core—
we all want the same thing.
Still, we’re shaped to believe in different forms of it.
So now,
we neither receive it
nor know how to give it.
How pathetic.

We don’t find love
in our own homes,
in our own circles.
So we search for it
in strangers,
in fleeting moments,
in unhealthy places.

How pathetic.

We live in a beautiful world,
yet we search for beauty
in someone’s mind,
in a line of poetry,
in the pages of a book.

We only find love
in ink and paper
and the more we find it there,
the more we ache.
Every day.
Each passing day.

How pathetic.

We don’t have the one thing
we need the most
the very thing
that makes us
human.