phoenix fire

blood red, tragedy. Yellow like the hope of us all. and orange- the in between. these are the colors it wears. 

a bird, so graceful, a wisp in the sky

sinking deeper into the smoke. 

the bird has fought their way through the smoke, perched, now upon a branch. 

it stares. looks up at the setting of the sun and decides it’s time has come. 

it nods and bides a farewell, peacefully as its ray of beauty, that once were feathers, fall to the floor in flames. 

ashes.

black soot.

the powder called hell.

it lays there, a heap of nothing, gone like the riveting power of that bird. it stays like that for a while. time goes by. time indescribable- as it could be seconds, minutes or days.

and with a whoosh, a sweeping of the dirt on the ground. the bird reforms. red, orange and yellow singing on the feathers of the bird. colors, so bright, even the vision of the sky feels mellow. 

the bird leaves. 

and the smoke, lifted from the sky, as the bird dips its beak into the sunset.