my parietal lobe is home to a phoenix
and each time i awaken in thought,
he burns brighter than type II supernovae,
littering vitalizing ash throughout
the entirety of my internal,
over incongruous cobblestones
and grooved floorboards
bearing all the signatures
and singed residue of rebirth.
-
the ashes multiply and collect
filling me gaunt with each muse lost,
and fifty times the sun is just enough
for him to wither into a black hole,
rendering my mind little more
than an event horizon,
and my life little more
than an expression
denoting eventuality.