How many times we have
risen
from the ashes
of some ruined
dream
of some broken
promise
of some word
unspoken
some deed
undone.
How many.
If I could
draw
with other than the
words that so often fail me,
If I could
paint
with other than the
ink that bleeds even here, even
now,
I would
paint
Her.
I would paint
The Phoenix
Blue
that is
Us.
Her wings are
indigo
lemniscates.
Without beginning
without ending
they flow,
vast and heavy
yet
light and clear,
from the steady cerulean
flame
that is her body.
Compact and strong
that body is,
diamond hard
yet
downy soft,
Newborn
Everlasting.
Its supple spine
extends
to a tail of limitless
measure that
trembles and falls,
quavers and drops
in perfect time with
those phospherant wings
like the quavering vibrato
of a coloratura just before the
shattering.
But silent.
So silent.
Not a sound rises
from wing or tail
as she cuts the smoke-filled
air of her latest,
most pain-filled
Death.
Until
Until
High aloft she opens her mouth,
that crystal-sharp edge of her
luminous
face, that has
withheld
guarded
swallowed
so much
so many
for all these
endless
lifetimes.
But no more.
No More.
For this time,
from these ashes,
she rises full-voiced
sure and strong and
pure.
And the song she sings
is Ours and Ours alone,
a deafening silence
to all other ears.
To us she calls
as never before,
her throaty cry
breathless, broken,
ragged from the
raging flames, but
certain, strong, and
true.
A song
of roads not taken
of paths not chosen
of endings
Overcome.
A song of Love.
A song of Life.
A song of Hope.
Our Song
Forever
Thanks to
You.
c.sdmrogers 2016
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