mumbles, jumbles, into the night
my baby phoenix stumbles into its plight
a better life was merely imagined
but my dove, my dear, bitterly determined
there! in the square
a drove of fireflies,
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.
one talon atop the southwest corner --
soon no more the object of the poet's pen,
is she reborn her own poetess.
her tuckered tail, dead-centered --
shaking off crimson pearls of lunar lunacy,
henceforth, bleeding on her own time, her own tenancy.
another talon into the southeast corner,
(we see that fiery lips lash and scorch her) --
never more at his penetrating gaze,
as her wings envelop the column of blaze.
she soars, she screams:
but to nothing but scorn --
the square-goers think she is just forlorn.
my dove, my dear, for your ****** death --
I pray it greets not a dragon's breath.