The Resurrection Of A Phoenix Soul

This is a story. A real life tale.

Of a small bird. Insignificant one.

Flying past an ‘untamed’ terrain.

“A valiant dreads only Apocalypse day”, the bird said

It ventured, unarmed.

The raw wings, knew too less.

It didn’t reflect before it spread.

Throbbing heart in a hand, it

Reached out

Only to be chopped

Trapped, Stabbed

The hemorrhaged wings now,

Caged …

Pain escalates.

To heights where dizzy felt.

A last desperate attempt

The bird with all its might

Shook the cage to thaw the lines

But the iron bars’ unrelenting fight

The wounded wings ached


With a poker face, it lit itself ablaze.

The inferno lit the skies.

Everything Burns.

To the tune of the bird’s song

The ashes of the hollow bones,

Joined the sashaying wind

The bird’s resurrection.

From the very residue it created.

Undone, an error.

Fresh wings garlands the heavens.

The undying embers of a phoenix soul.

A free soul

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