what i've heard of you

comes from your lips.

blue walls
covered in script.

repainted

replantings
on a type writer
still typing
even after death,

reborn to a future
of retypes
replacements
and re-edits.

sweat covered bottles
drowning the rain.

rainbows
infringing
on the last night.
the last cigarette.

until the next
brings smoke
to your lips,
tounges your lungs.

the reintroduction
of your death.

creative bliss
at the hands of
a self indulgent mother.
the pet project task masker
who built you a home

white washed to mask
the blue, the script
of a fevered mind, to shakle
the shaking riddled hand.

Risen
from this cage
a Phoenix;
enflamed wings
singeing the soul
of those
windswept without
stories of their own.

Bitter winds whip beaks,
tickle the under belly
of those
too afraid
of their own shadow
to fly free.

Instead,

we line up in
formation
beak to tail

as the
Phoenix

draws Circles
on the wind.