A crimson bird perches on the evening skyline, grieving.
Its tears fall, shedding
drops of crimson feathers.
Its sadness pierces through the dry air like a howling siren.
Its disappointment cuts into itself, razors embedding and clawing into the flesh.
It cannot escape from harm,
This harm,
Harm caused by crushed dreams of false hope.
Harm caused by fallen ambition and lost glory.
The shadow of the moonlight radiates on its royal crimson plummage.
The sight itself burns the eyes of the observer.
The sulking phoenix's silhouette against a half-crescent moon,
The cold, hard sobs breaking the silence of the dead night.
As it grieves, crimson feathers continue to shed.
The once royal plummage is reduced to mere wisps.
As the dawn breaks, a divine wind picks up the fallen crimson feathers, and gently wraps the plummage around the fledge.
As the sun rises, the bird and the crimson feathers incinerate.
Pillars of smoke, thermal heat, bright crimson feathers burning, glowing like the morning sun.
Pain of immolation subdues the pain of a vanity burt.
Ashes slowly flutter from the skyline into a pile.
Then, suddenly,
Revitalized by its death, and
Ascending from it fall,
The Phoenix reborns from its ashes.