Treasure Island

Andrew Raines


The Phoenix


The house burns in the dead of day
Cry not for water say not a word
Must find the needle in the burning hay
Inferno speaks its flaming voice heard
Its soul of one so clean
Reflected in the eye of the carrion lord
A raven of black Odin’s sheen
Portent of the shade king Mord
Thought and memory come to rest
Among the rafters, ten feet abreast
Their calls to the beacon of the flames
To fetch the masters and the dames
The fecund desolation of cinders untold
The ash clouds plume spires abound
The small bird’s growth, life to refold
The vivacious spark of life in death found
From the char the phoenix does stir
A clap of its wings, the devastation a blur

Submitted: Friday, May 02, 2008

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