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
Only to be chopped
The hemorrhaged wings now,
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.
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