Phoenix Reborn
by Dawg
In the cemetery of broken dreams, night presses in–
a cold, relentless judge,
every gravestone etched with the story of another hope torn down,
another wish unfulfilled.
Frost devours the bones of ambitions,
and the ground remembers every desperate pledge,
and hope itself seems a rare disease,
infected by the ashes of all it once willed.
Yet from this ossuary of vanished laughter,
beneath the granite and the moss,
something stirs with the arrogance of defiance–
a single ember refusing to be stilled.
Beneath funereal clouds, beneath the weight of every faded vow,
a whispering flame finds shelter in the cracks
between what was and what could be.
No priest nor mourner marks this resurrection,
no witness but the grave itself–
still, through the bedrock of loss,
the phoenix claws upward, dragging fire from its own debris.
The graveyard is crowded with defeat,
yet this rebellion burns unrepentant,
a fire born of pain and scavenged memory,
never begging for the light but making its own.
Wings unfurl, gold threaded with the charcoal of loss,
each beat scattering the ancient night,
a new dawn threatened with color,
the cinders beneath writhing with heat and intent.
From every cold tomb and every dire plot,
where hearts once surrendered to the appetite of worms and regret,
the phoenix tears open the soil, refusing to rot,
rises shrieking, crowned in smoke and radiant with unmet debt.
Its call is a blade–cutting through memory’s rot–
a declaration to the dusk: I am not finished yet.
A creature both made and unmade by agony and belief,
turning every bleak ending into a beginning that never bends.
From ashes, from endings, from the yawning dark–rebirth transcends,
and the graveyard of broken dreams is razed
by the fever of its own relief.