Manifestation. As if there aren't enough in the world.
Fresh and new. A phoenix born from the ashes.
A collage of past, present, future. Hopeful.
Like an abandoned Church's bell; ignored by most.
Some stop and listen, remain unaffected by the ringing.
But innocence and ignorance, hand in hand, do hear it.
And they walk into the old Church. Once crowded.
Once over-flowing pews are now cobwebs and shades.
Tossed aside as society floated away. Morphing alone.
Crouching in the shadows. Growing silently. Hidden.
Hidden until it is whispered and carried by the breeze.
All the mockingbirds are singing it.
Political heartbreak. Emotional anarchy.
But lynching offers no Death.
Burying offers no Suffocation.
Decomposition. As if there are enough in the world.
Old and burnt. Time steals yet another. Gone forever?
Not quite forgotten, not quite remembered. Invisible.
Like washed-over footprints in the sand. Erased.
Never to return as exactly the same shape, yet to return.
In a new place. New depth. A phoenix to rise again.
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Comments about this poem (A Thought by Zoe Guillory )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
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