Four centuries of cursed existence, the Devil awaits to burn itself to death and be reborn from its ashes.

A hundred-fold of memories and relentless lifetimes,
Nothing is too beautiful in immortality unless one takes a break of Death and resurrect itself.

Decades of power, punishment, and misery,
The Devil soars above humanity, luring them into vices
His own self-consciousness could feed the approach of Death,
while the Devil himself starves for something he is not.

The Devil wove a nest of memories and resined it before winter,
He was life on earth, for all the demons escaped hell for it
The Devil was then the predecessor whom a woman loved,
Yet he burned himself and the memories to ashes, in exchange to recreate himself.

IA

I am said to be majestic
That my presence is blessed
Is it though? I question it
They say I symbolise eternity
As if... that is praiseworthy
They merely fear death, thus
They project their fantasies
Upon me, my "holy" flames
They know not, nor care
That I am cursed, forever
Cursed, I say! Cursed! Cursed!
.
Each time I cry in anguish
Hoping my tears are enough
To cool the flames of my soul
As my life painfully burns
Yet, you are confused
You actually believed
That there will be beauty
To arise from my ashes
.
This is a neverending cycle
Am I still me? Is the past real?
When this happens again
Will the new "me" still be me?
The best dreams I ever have
In which I am dying, truly dying
The end, the ultimate finale
I'm tired, I wish to rest
Sing me to sleep, then leave me
If this happens, if I break this cycle
Do not feel bad for me; know this
I will finally be free, to go home
And know true bliss and peace
.

It isn’t as if
I must put on
the Queen’s English
to be around you.

It isn’t as though
I should feel
the need to rebel, or
that my solitude

is a luxury
instead of a right.
Rather, these are
the whale-bone songs

of a well-worn battalion,
poised as I am
at every solstice,
footsore at the door.

This is simply
the ebb and flow
of ambrosia
that sets the pendulum

to swing
in different arcs
of fool’s gold,
the soft footings

at the edge of my radar.
This is the culture shock
of living dead girls
undergoing a seismic shift

in the round
mother-of-pearl
mountain ash,
insinuating

themselves
in a sea of voices,
while shadows cast
a romantic screen.

For every one that succeeds,
millions of others fail.
So tell me
how it should be,

that I could live
on my knees
and weep honey tears
as my dreams escape me.

Because this is
a death of sorts.
The phoenix rises,
only to burn again.

Poverty
is a personal Shanghai,
and just as vast.
I want to believe

that wealth can be
weathered beauty,
Elizabethan colouring,
and a pirate smile.

You get my most
gorgeous parts,
although
my flaws,

innumerable,
hidden
in blind spots,
hidden in ivory,

are discovered
again and again,
as I live between what was
and what will be.

She was a Phoenix.
She blazed like a fire,
And rose from her ashes.
And when she rose,
The world fell at her knees.

They set fire to my country
And watched as it burned down
Forgetting that it was a phoenix
And the phoenix rises from its ash

I am weak
And wobble as I stand
Like a baby bird
A phoenix, perhaps
Rising from the ashes
With a bit too much smoke
Left in its lungs.

The old husk
That shell built over many days
Of spring and rocks,
Gentle grass and balmy river
When it forgot it’s name was phoenix
Has been torn off
Too soon, like a scab
And the new skin underneath
Is tender in its infant stage
Under thin and ashy feathers.

Yes, it lives
Yes, it is rising

But one cannot go
From flames to flight
In an instant.

Let it instead be overnight
And let you, sweet bird
Rest
In the meanwhile.