Flame keeper/seeker
Fire spreader/eater
She keeps the company of ghosts
In a nest of ash and bones
They tried to tame her/claim her
Pulling her by the plumes
But her will cannot be contained
A goddess crowned with flames
She represents peace and prosperity
A rare symbol of hope in days of antiquity
But those who dared to get close
Danced with the fire of their funeral pyre
For neither flesh nor armor could endure
The embrace of the fire bird
So she lives a life of solitude
Talons and flame her only verisimilitude
Fire spreader/eater
Flame keeper/seeker
Rise from the ashes, your spirit renewed



She prepares her coffin of hope, lined with naivete.
Love takes no prisoners–only casualties.
A deep drink of wine to chase the pill of stability.

Her heart is black and blue from her own fists.
She is the sharp dagger, poised above the breast.
One courageous plunge… then she can rest.

She wants to watch the world burn,
Pouring gasoline apologies from an urn.
How many times can a phoenix return?

The toss of a match
A long look back…
Fiction melts into fact.

Her place is here among the ash
And skeletons of hearts amassed,
Her own bones completing the cast.

She clings to the ghost of a dream,
Her words eaten by the sound of a scream.
Rise, firebird, and spread your wings.

There will be time for coffins and time for hope.
There will be hearts tangled and strangled in rope
As they try to scale her treacherous slope.

Love takes no prisoners–only casualties.
And yet we seek its fire perpetually,
Death, rebirth… Victims willingly.


photo credit: liquidnight via photopin cc

photo credit: liquidnight via photopin cc

Out of ash, you’ll rise—
a feathery dawn come to
set the world ablaze.

Creature of the sun,
stretch your wings and soar again.
You were made for this.

Fire lights your hair and
your eyes sparkle sapphire—
terrible beauty.

Sing your siren song,
Firebird, for you will never
know clutches nor cage.

The secret behind
a soul that cannot be killed
is your destruction.

Sharpen your talons.
Pick gems from the hearts of men
with an easy beak.

Birds of prey must feed,
and the most tender of breasts
is oft the sweetest.

Yes, plumed Lazarus,
move your wings with graceful pride.
You were made for this.