I think it’s the ordinary that really gets to us
We have to put meaning to the ordinary first of course
Perhaps that's why we call it extraordinary
Our own meaning fused with something that could be everyday
I think that’s the most beautiful way to look at it
I really do
We have to find the beauty ourselves
For it could be anything
Anywhere
And you’ll know it when you see it
It’ll strike you
Throw you for something you thought you’d never see
So incredible you feel you may have disappeared from the world you've known so long
This is a long winded way of saying I found a phoenix
It’s surprising what you can find when you’re not looking
I was so busy try to wrestle overgrown blooms from my lungs
I almost didn’t see the bird flitter down onto the windowsill
Mighty and bold
Soft sparks exploding from every flap of his wings
He’s beautiful
And his song even more so:
Strings of fiery passion
Stories of all he’s heard and seen
And a kindness that runs deep and rampant
Like a river of white flames
And there I sat
Eyes softly weeping amber
Hands covered in dirt and blood reached into my chest
In the process of tearing out flowers that should have never been mine
What an impression to make don’t you think?
I wonder what he must think of me now

I truly think he’s beautiful
And as a bird does
He flies and he wanders
His life is separate than mine
Yet the moments that intertwine are those to behold
His sparks and flames do not hurt
But rather aid small aching joints
That have been too cold for too long
His song radiant and bright
It brings hope to my own soft voice
Humming along tranquilly
Sometimes
I can still see the falter in his wings
Hear the stutter in his song
He tries so hard to hide it
I want to help him
Reach out my hand
But I fear my help is unwanted and burdunous
After taking the plants from my veins
Blooms from my lungs
Cuttinging most roots from my heart
I have been reduced to what I once was:
A small and empty pond
How can a pond reach a hand to a phoenix?
How can something made of water even try and touch something of flame?
Perhaps I am just foolish

I think I’m the only one who can see the phoenix
Rather
I think I’m the only one who can tell he’s a phoenix
I don’t understand how some can look upon him and turn away
How can they not see
The fire
How can they not feel
The heat
How can they not hear
His passion
His stories
His kindness
I’ve started to wonder if he even knows
Does he know?
Does he know what beauty he holds?
This question now plagues my sleep
I wish for him to return, if only for a moment,
To see his reflection
Perhaps a pond can be good for that if nothing else

They call him a sparrow
Which would be fine if they didn’t say it with such disregard
They really cannot see it?
They compare his crimson coat to dust
His passion to ramblings
His fire to wildness
His kindness… can they just not see his kindness?
How can they not?
They call him a sparrow
As if there is nothing to the word
As if there is nothing more
They call him a sparrow yet they do not look upon him
They do not listen
They call him a sparrow
And he believes the way they say it
There is always more
So much more than what they say
I think it’s the ordinary that always gets to us
Beauty can be anywhere
Anyone
If I ever call him a sparrow
It will not be negligent of all I’ve seen
Beauty is in the ordinary
And a sparrow can still be a phoenix