Phoenix Poem by Lydia Thacker

My hope is like acid:
it makes life an illusion,
a quilt of tortured grit
sprawled across destiny's table.
(as though a supernova could really fit)

Its disguise makes it appear vivacious,
filled with sporadic buoyancy...
One brilliant sequin cannot hide cliche.

This crusted mirror image I cradle,
this chariot riding upon the rail
-a pseudo-road addicted to fame-
powered by a fierce foreign transmission.

Unable to salvage my reasoning, I cruise, lost.
a monster obsessed by passion's flames,
weapons which lick at my spirits,
leaving me drained, sour, ravenous, betrayed...
(and probably seeming a little psycho)

Ah, that I could listen to my shadow,
my more rational self...

She whispers that I must find a necromancer,
one who can trade this new self
-which would have horrified the old me-
thrash it into submission,
thereby making room in which to resurrect me,
the true me, from the dust which remains.

I am the phoenix.