Ashes of a Phoenix

Looking towards my hands,

I feel them mutter a tone,

Of disdain and sadness,

Dirty and pale, bleeding out from within.

 

The colors of the honeycomb which is my life,

Building in a way to demonstrate the failures and flaws of my being,

To make it simply this: I feel trapped.

 

Trapped between the Rock and the grass of an ever developing future,

One, of course, that I must live,

growing unsteady,

With dying form.

 

However,

I have watched those before I beat down the walls that halt my soul.

 

Perhaps the movements of a honeycomb enclosure are that to guide and build,

Containing the imperfect shells of a once forgotten past,

to help predict the later struggles and shortcomings of the current design;

Colors parading like that of the dying sun

-- but without rhythm --

 

For through the ashes of a Phoenix’s burning glory,

it remains;

sat atop the ash and dirt of its past.

 

Now

here I sit staring at my hands, dirty and pale,

From the ashes of my predecessors,

Bled out from within.

 

Destined to singe the stone on which I stand.

 

Ashes of a Phoenixbleedingdepressiondoubtfailurefamilyfearhopelessmisery

◄ The Consistency of Water

Red Velvet Sand ►

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