The Golden Rebirth
A sonnet on the Phoenix, the mythical bird of fire that dies to be reborn.
Upon the pyre of cedar, spice, and myrrh,
The gilded wings are folded in the heat.
No trembling fear, no frantic, sudden stir,
As flame and feathered gold in silence meet.
To ash and ember falls the ancient grace,
A glowing ghost within the cooling gray.
The hollow wind forgets the soaring face,
As light and shadow drift and melt away.
But look! A spark begins to pulse and wake,
A hidden heart that beats beneath the dust.
The heavy chains of ending start to break,
As life returns, as every spirit must.
From blackened coals the burning pinions rise,
To paint a second morning in the skies.
The Keeper of the Riddle
A sonnet on the Sphinx, the enigmatic guardian of the sands.
She sits upon the threshold of the sand,
With lion’s claws and wings of heavy stone.
The shifting dunes across the desert land,
Are all the empire that she calls her own.
Her eyes are fixed on secrets long forgot,
A silent judge of every passing soul.
The tangled threads of every human plot,
Are written in her ancient, dusty scroll.
"What walks on four, then two, then finally three?"
The question hangs within the burning air.
A mirror held so every man might see,
The fleeting truth that leads him to despair.
The answer is the key to pass the gate,
Or find a sudden, sharp, and stony fate.
No comments:
Post a Comment