The phoenix's legendary ability
To rise from the ashes of an explosive past,
To fly in the face of death,
To clamber atop the pyre meant to destroy her
And use flames to fan her wings as she takes off
Is envied by man,
And her healing tears are so coveted, few observe that her wings are singed and feathers coated with black dust.
Everyone marvels at her glory,
But no one realizes that the phoenix does not sing
Because her throat carries the flames of stifled screams.
She rises,
And slick-tongued men who coat the arrows of their words
With oily promises,
Pontificate about the beauty of her wings
And pretend to revere her regeneration,
Directing attention to her resurrection,
But failing to point out that to rise again,
She had to be burnt,
And that their fingers were still stained yellow from sulphur
Or that the stench of smoke still lingers
On their breath.
Up above, the phoenix soars.
She does not look down.
She does not look back.
She looks ahead
Through tears that bend light into rainbows,
Tears that she refuses to let fall,
For if she were to release them,
To expose her vulnerability,
What would she be but another ordinary bird
Trapped yet again by the wiles of man?
