All flames burn down to ashes,
Left unattended, abandoned.
Much like gardens left to weeds,
And sparse rain falls.
Looking at my fire,
It weakens, only to grow again.
The wood I carry,
My dreams, my hopes, my desires,
But I carry my failures,
And my shortcomings, too.
If I burn only for a future,
What point was the past?
Learn from the letdowns,
And burn brighter for it.
The phoenix I hold inside,
Might die with the cruel waves of time.
It has come close before,
But still, I stroke it’s soft feathers,
And step forward into the night.
I will make my own sunshine,
My own fair weather days.
Until then, I prod the wood on fire,
And add fuel to its crimson flames.