A narrative poem by:

Zerayn D.

Where the Phoenix shall rise

The eagle mourned through months of loss,
the cuckoo lynched, a cruel emboss,
ruthless avifauna’s made him bled,
in his old nest, now stained with blood.

Blood and feathers marked the ground,
the remnants of a murder profound,
until summer’s warmth, with bright embrace,
signaled the woods its arrival to the place.

Thermal heat arises, the sun stands in pride,
its incandescent light grows stronger with time’s tide,
searing the corners, roasting the air,
heat dances in waves, a shimmering flare.

Every drop of liquid turns swiftly to steam,
a mirage unfolds like a distant dream,
and lo, from the waves of heat’s embrace,
a flame erupts, igniting in the widest space.

It started small, then grew with haste,
in seconds, bigger than a bush’s trace,
in minutes, a mound of flames did rise,
barricading corners, thick as walls, to the skies.

Smoke tumbled, spread like a heavy cloak,
depleting vision, as it silently spoke,
eating through rocks, through logs, through bark,
trunks and trees fell prey to its spark.

Ashes settled at the flames’ hemline,
a quiet reminder of nature’s decline.

The remnants of the cuckoo’s death,
consumed by peaks where flames take breath,
the smoke whispers grief, an unjust scent,
an odor of sorrow, where time is spent.

The eagle could no longer bear the pain,
soared toward the horizon, beyond the plain,
never a glance, no look behind,
a flight for freedom, leaving it all confined.