The Phoenix

The Phoenix speaks to me through signs and happenstance—

like all good spirits do—through strangers’ words in passing,

increasing frequent emblems sidling through my glance.

“Do you really want to burn?” he asked, out-gassing

in a moment when my ego-mountain reared and rolled,

reminding me how much I still do care when former friends

judge and criticize my motives—so I’m told,

friends I’d have thought would know my heart and share my ends. 

But my ego-mountain, says the Phoenix, is volcanic,

filled with fire, destined, like Saint Hel’n, to blow her top.

Not much help, when my inner Pleaser starts to panic,

and shame informs me that my rhymescheme has to stop—

It’s not your business, says he, what others think 

of you, you must know this first, 

before any talk of death, rebirth or fire.

Your ego-mountain is a molehill, little man,

though crucial (like a cross), to understand desire,

to know who you are NOT, with all the masks you hold

before your soul to shape and mold perceptions rather

than let your spark be seen for what it is—

a singularity, infinitely hot and dense

from which escapes no light or sense

that prods each nodding ending to begin

and warms awaiting universes poised within.

“Do you really want to burn?” he says again.

“Once burnt, you cannot live in blissful ignorance,

cannot ignore the duty, debt or ken.

The path of fire is no easy, lazy dance.”

The question hangs like dawn and greets my everyday,

even as I reassemble sense and rhymescheme,

that Phoenix animates each step along my Way,

ignites whatever else it is that I may dream.