Phoenix.

I remember my mother
cradling me in her crimson wings
which are most vivid today
as she wears a dress
not unlike in colour.
My mother, she is a phoenix
I have always been her child
and she’d bend over me
her tears would heal me
but the back gets broken
the bones crack
the skin falls off
the phoenix, she
crumbles into ashes
and is born once again
And aren’t these ashes I see now?
Waiting for something to grow back.
Waiting.
A hue of crimson burns bright in them.

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