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,
With dying form.
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,
sat atop the ash and dirt of its past.
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.