All's turned to ashes
And they say that's good -
That flowers pop up from death
Like stars
And there's talk of a bird
Made of red and orange and yellow
Made of fire
That rises up
Covered in its remains
New.
But I am no Phoenix
No flower
No tree
I'm not even the wind
That blows the ash onto
You and me.
I am a girl
In a world of hot white, grey, black
Destruction
Left to taste the things they say
And they taste of ash.