Plumes of a Firebird...

in the broad light of day

it glaze and flamebey

the atmosphere when it appear

while she fly through the sky

on a wire it’s choir I heard
from the flaps of the firebird

squawking and talking between mumbles
plumes somersault and tumble

in it’s wake as I take
one of the feathers from
the fringe

they purr rupture and weeper
embers ejaculate from the ether
on my skin they singe

applies and cauterize my conscious
from stereotypes that exist
opening my veins

barriers rust, combust into indigo
abreast winds that blow
no longer contained

by conceptions, perceptions incinerated
inspiration refreshed and recreated
through a vermillion and zinc quill

awoken by the java of lava pour
on negatives below where I soar
searing them as the ink spill...