god or the gods or
both placed me atop a pyre of
metal bars with slick
hands grab and
push you back and it's all made up of
riches from the sultan's court's
(the man was a liar, you know)
(i'm burning! i'm dying! do you feel it?
or does it just smell like spice to
you? you don't even care - so why
am i addressing you anyway?)
they're fools however, they don't
know: my wings are shades of scarlet &
gold. my fingers brush past blood
i rise out of the fire.
firebird in shades of
( - how do you like it when you're incorrect
because you never are; it must hurt
& you never cared - so
why should i? - )
scarlet & gold, my regal
in perfect perfection
( - you never had any - )
i live again.