Lower and lower, the cinders creep,
Approaching her majesty with burning earnest.
I watch ashen roses form before me
At a park bench through sun-drenched eyes.

The smoke billows up in gusts:
Ghosts of the native haunting tribes,
Guides to the eternal earth spirit
Of whom I am killing slowly.

Her feathers now tinged by vice,
She flaps the clouds towards my
Wool-knit scarf bought at Notre Dame
In hopes that I will perish first.

Flames lick her, yet she stares silently,
Not begging or pleading for an end.
She believes herself a phoenix. She is right.
She will rise again to singe my lungs.

This beautiful bird is saved by my neglect,
My quest to record her encroaching death.
She will not live on;
She will become another.