The Phoenix Poem by Thea Pound

What am I, but what time forgot,
But an echo from your past?
What am I but a shadow,
Of dreams once forged from glass?
What am I but a mere remnant,
Of your flames burnt out to embers?
What am I but a faded echo,
Barely a thing to remember?

What am I but fleeting thoughts?
What am I but an old reminder,
Of days long past, and better gone,
Of faith you held when times were kinder?
What am I but a sense of loss?
What am I but a sacrifice?
What am I but what's left behind,
Since you abandoned that dark life?

What am I but the pale ashes,
Of the cinders of ideals?
A distorted copy of a copy,
Of what you used to feel?
There is nothing here to honour,
A torch that fails to light the dark,
I am barely a trace of the life,
That once powered your heart.

You swore not to surrender,
You swore not to give in,
But you've become a tin man,
Atoning for your sins.
You dare not dream to change things,
You will not raise a hand;
Devoured by self-pity,
It's by yourself you're damned.

If only you would reach out,
You could change this wretched course,
But you've surrendered to destiny,
Or some other unseen force.
No longer you have faith in me;
A moral compass long broken.
No longer am I part of you,
I'm sealed, not to be woken.

Is this truly to be the ending,
Of what was to be our story?
With you repentant and alone,
Without your blaze of glory?
Though I no longer have a voice,
I'll fight while you cannot,
And someday you'll remember,
The dream that you forgot.

What are you without me?
A seeker without direction?
I know that you will remember,
Someday, upon reflection;
While your fire dies out,
There's no way I can burn,
But my memory, like a Phoenix,
Is destined to return.