They’re slowly fading; the innocent that is.

The creative are in the same boat doing the same thing.

Originality was found dead on arrival, the doctors said they did everything they could.

The conformists revel. No more color, no more fight.

But wait, there are birds. Land is near. A new hope is forming.

A Hibiscus in the distance, gleaming like the beacon it is.

Dancing is reborn, hands rejoice. They’ve discovered the new map.

The oppression is suppressed; the birds are out of the cage.

Imitation is sincerest form of the word stifle. That is the new law of the new land.

Memories of the old land are just that, memories. The old land burst into a thousand trite ashes.

Souls intertwined with fire, death, and rebirth, they are the new phoenix.