Dying Phoenix

A sheer drop through whorls of time is death in action.

Being and non-being cross paths, hold your hand,

To disperse in a whiff of pungent nostalgia. Reason and passion

no longer wrestle for possession of that bitter-sweet land -

your vague soul's grey depth; your senses outside-in,

An upturned blue fruitless bowl - your mind. It matters little,

for the bottom has dropped off. Your ears, in the din,

have sunk into your skull, and your eyes like brittle,

pink pebbles, painted over with a spot of black. I hold your

Head in my lap. Your lips, now purple, then black, and now

fading out in a whiter shade of cold. Sullen slumbers lour

O'er your face, so closed! Your still arms, a few strands on your brow -

Ready and waiting fuel. Come on love, let's light the fire!

Hurry up! The phoenix dies to be our funeral pyre!