Burning Song

So burdened with a burning Song, the Soul

makes, moves toward that eloquence of gold

when flames have stripped her body of what stone-

like flesh surrounds the Phoenix in its home

within the heart, upon its bed of ash,

its gaping breast revealing in a gash

some vein of priceless metal for the forge

to siphon, like a cruel but kindly whore

might summon pain from deep inside a man

and coax it into blooming in the hand,

its petals wet with music—a tale told,

sung in that wounded poetry of gold.

05/28/2016

West Vancouver

after azurite

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada