deepundergroundpoetry.com

Phoenix Flawed

 

These are my ashes
and I rise, not in flames
of triumph, but streaked
in soot.


Grey pervades the days
and the oozing damp
advances into sheets
and gloves.


The click of bones grasps
my wrist, and the chill
seeps through skin
and blood.


The ticking hand condemns
my spine to stillness
and my struggles
have ceased.

Atakti
Written by Atakti
Published
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