no pheonix nights

ash and bone.

nothing was left but ash and a single
bone.  a leg bone, in fact, the tibia
or femur.

no fever, this.  no fire forcing it
self onto a witch - no flames devoured
this sad scene.

I hear that the ash was brought from the woods.
I hear that bones have risen from the dead.
I hear a lot of things about rebirth.


but all i see here is ash
ash and bone
with no flames to burn
to the heart of anything.

and on these long-gone no-pheonix-nights
I re member the dead and forgotten bones
I reassamble the dreams of the years gone past
and i form a fake pheonix out of hoping.




im sick to death of hoping.  sick to death of waiting for a time
that never comes          a moment
that never comes         


My faked pheonix, my hope,
is just selfcombustion.  It eats itself,
dissapates into ash and bone,
and slopes home to bed.


I will dream other dreams, and they will also not come true.