Phoenixes are rising from
the marshes
where you left
your dreams
to die.
Every fantastic feather
lamenting the life you
lost to live
a life
of lies
instead.
Tear and blood stains
ravaging ripples
on unclear ground
while they rise
above
the closet skeletons
you left them
for dead as.
Accentuating ascent with
caucous cries
of victory
making sure the caws
are just
loud enough
for failure to
sink its teeth
as you sink lower
in regret.
Winged warriors
find respute alighting
on arms of
souls that need
to soar themselves.
Sharing the
dreams
defiantly undead
to persons with
more purely-put
productivity.
Someone has to
get things done,
after all.
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Comments
and great flow throughout.
also!
a clever close.
--
an antique arms and armor expert
You're always too sweet.
<3333
--
"Where the Spirit does not Work with the Hand there is No Art" -Da Vinci
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