Kurt Kacich

Phoenix - Poem by Kurt Kacich

The phoenix, the bird of the most beautiful wings,
The Phoenix, comprised of the most beautiful cry that it sings,
With an average lifespan of 500 to 1000 years,
That rises from ashes in a rainbow life sphere,
A modern representation of incarnation,
From death to reborn life in the most majestic formation,
The fire spirit with a tail of scarlet and gold,
It’s the expression of defeat to triumph in stories told,
So beautiful the incarnated firebird that holds prophecies,
The real life phenomenon of human afterlife reversed in hypocrisy,
For every new born into the world they rise from ashes,
Born into beauty of a rainbow like wings with color flashes,
Incarnated from eggs made frankincense and myrrh,
Until 500 years later that projects light of fire into the atmosphere,
Where the egg is stored in Heliopolis, the city of the sun,
The Phoenix is the fervid ball the lit the earth when there wasn’t one,
In the form of a bird, the Phoenix projects itself as the sun god Ra,
That lights fires in footsteps in the ancient Egyptian army of pasha,
Also the iconography of Christ from life, death and resurrection,
From the Last Supper, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday recollected,
Where from life to after death incarnation is forever connected,
Forever more the firebird flies through the land while it’s wings glisten,
A song so beautiful Helios stops his chariot, the sun, and listens,
Music to his ears, it’s the Greek representation of the fire spirit,
Where in the realm of Mount Olympus the twelve Gods can hear it,
In Persia the Phoenix is destroyed and rebuilt seven times,
Destroyed to ashes, it rises again more beautiful than before and in fire it shines,
Where in China it’s the representation of the empress and the female,
As the greatest and leader of the birds, it lights the sky with rainbow like fire from its tale,
In my world that lies in Paradise of my mind the Phoenix is the bird the lights the sky,
It’s also the calming plea from the other birds in correlation with night’s lulla by,
It is the fifth hundred year the hands on the clock lose grip of time,
It is also the fifth hundred year that without fire melting the Phoenix turns sublime,
Paradise, where the Phoenix lays it’s egg in the middle of the land,
Where in the middle of Paradise’s core earth wind water and fire began,
In every fifth hundred year the time freezes and the darkness falls,
Where life is reborn from ashes in spellbound beauty and the land remains enthralled,
The Phoenix famous in many cultures as the most beautiful bird in history,
The most beautiful bird in different countries and dimensions that remains a mystery.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, May 12, 2010

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