Son Of The Phoenix Poem by Jak Hard

SON OF THE PHOENIX

For the man who cried,
whose tears healed wounds,
who walked unharmed through a blanket of fire.

Whose pure heart,
as warm as the sun,
never wavers its loyalty.

No water can macerate this man,
nor can any swords penetrate his flaming skin.

When he feels like it is time,
this man stretches out his iridescent golden-red wings,
showing his bluish tinged underbelly, and soars through the clouds before
landing with elegance.

He lets out a loud, warm, warbling cry that echoes through the depths of the Earth,
filling all the peoples hearts with solace,
before flying to its cinnamon twig nest and bursting into white-hot flames.

As it burns and the last of the cinnamon aroma drifts weightlessly through the air, a new bird emerges.

The bird, whose feathers shimmer in tiny, sparkling fragments of colour and flame,
lifts off the funeral pyre and flies the ashes to Heliopolis, to the sun temple where they are kept to sprinkle over sacred bodies.

The bird flies back to its tree where it cries,
and in a slow metamorphosis,
evolves back into a man.

As he stretches once more,
he looks at the tree that he disintegrated and cries on it.
The tree immediately grows back,
more beautiful and more lush than ever before,
ready to be used.

He sees,
in minds eye,
his father, the phoenix,
and soars up in the air with courage,
more than any other person.

He truly is the Son of the Phoenix.