“We make ourselves up as we go.” – Kate Green

~~*~~

She seems a whisper, a shade, a remnant

Of what once was.  Those who loved her then see

Now only their own fragile mem’ries,

No more substantial than the smoke that

Rises from her ashes.  Who there sees the

Phoenix?  And for whom do dark clouds conceal

The burning glory?  It is in their minds,

This lifeless spirit, poor forlorn soul, not

In her reality.  The true see what

She has become, a firebird raging

Against dark nights, too strong now to longer

Bear the oppressive, chilling shadows.  They

Would see her prior shell, the burned husk, and

Think her dead, or worse.  But one of Spirit

Can not die; Immortality has been

Hers always.  The entourage would rather

Mourn the other-self, the wispy image,

And plant lilies over an empty grave,

When she strides forth from there, scarred but striving,

And more beautiful for her burns.  Instead

Of bright sun, they see smoldering cinders.

Farewell to she that died, to she too weak

For this world, but let those with open eyes

Bring warm greetings to her successor, the

New Lady, proud and golden in her place.