She started living for herself, finally, after years of doing what everyone else wanted.
She quit her job and her makeup routine, finally letting that beautiful face of hers breath.
She started writing more, inspiration finally found it's way back to her veins.
She was reborn, like a phoenix from ashes, and finally figured out how to be alive again.

Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion

Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency

Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams

Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions

Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled

In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
******* with the intangible essence

To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance

Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice

Her life begins from ashes
From the ashes she rise
The same ashes she becomes
When she dies
More powerful
Stronger and wise
To sail for forever
In every skies
A mythical beast
Born out of fire
To keep burning always
She aspire
She flies high
She looks like a bird
The mighty beast
That some think is absurd
Flaming always
In yellow and red shades
Her blaze is eternal
It never fades
Only those ones can see her
Who believe
Magic she have
Even in tears she grieve
Bodies and souls
And every wound they heal
Her flame so hot
It melts even steel
She looks for someone
To enlighten and warm
But not to burn
In her firestorm
She is a bit dark
And a lot mysterious
She is powerful
And so delirious
She is exquisite
And so observant
Give us hope
Her heat so fervent
Her freedom and her flight
No cage can restrain
She is the Phoenix
And she would always rise again

you may have the energy but i am the platform
i am the stage you trickle your toes upon
the strength you call for when your fiery-coloured life needs
air

breathe me into your wildfire
and when you are lucid
remember to take me with you to shield your roar

i want to be the only world to taste your inferno
exhaust me with your combustion, it's okay
even if my skin gets burned, even if i return to ashes

i will see you rise.
i will take your blaze as a warmth.
for your spark, i will forever be
**insatiable

I am a myth and something that cannot be defined,
ablaze with the fiery heat of a life that has been most unkind.

With a touch of a feather I ignite a match,
wanting nothing more than to detach
myself from the earth that caused my tribulation,
and to cause my own cremation.

Black ash darkening the sky's midst,
I am being kissed
by the scorching blaze of a newborn flame
my last breath unnoticed as the calm overcame.

Rising from the ashes, I am born again,
powerful, exultant, majestic through all the pain.

We sat anxious and low
in your bedroom cupboard
beleaguered by hollow briefcases
and stifling musty winter clothes.

Holding our cigarettes like a crucifix
hunched over the ashtray
basking in the lonely timid light
you yanked into life
with the tug of a frail string.

I was ready to speak existentially
ready to be immortalized
by the blinding flash of the ancient pictor
black and white
candid but purposeful.

Locked into my eyes
lingering in their intensity
my artistic mystery.

I was suddenly pulled from my disillusionment
as my wishful banter was silenced
by your stern hush
preferring a whisper so your
parents didn't hear.

I watched you take a drag
like a glass of water
in the middle of the desert
so desperate, so agonizing.

I watched you shakily tap
tiny flakes of your soul
into the ashtray
your eyes distant, mournful.

It was irreversible;
my childlike fantasy
of aesthetic in the smoke
on my breath--

not from frigid temperatures
but adolescent guilty pleasures
coveted forbidden treasures--

to turn into the ashes
I watched my friend flick
routinely into the tray.

"This is not James Dean," I realized.
This is not somber-eyed bedecked
in worn leather jacket
leaning against a cool brick wall.

"Neither is this 'A Hard Day's Night.'"
This is not Ringo smiling amiably
shaking his head with cigarette
bouncing and dainty on his lips.

This is huddled in my best friend's
cramped cupboard
watching him surrender himself
to a caustic lord who scorches his life
away

in every drag that burns between
his cracking lips
in every ash flicked from
his shaking fingers.

I watched the smoke envelop his weary body
I watched the ashes eulogize his fading spirit
I watched him bid farewell with his tired eyes
I watched him disappear.