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Good Good martyrs for justice

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Phoenix in Plight At the base of a temple somewhere in Egypt, resides a withered, old bird of gold and red and purple plumes. The avian flies here when it knows it is its time, and in a grand sacrifice, it bursts into a cloud of flames, only to reappear as a fresh, young fledgling, burying its old self and flying onward to live out the rest of its new days. I like to think that people are like that in a way. We grow old and we change and we leave old parts of ourselves behind, sometimes in other people and sometimes buried deep where no one can find it, and even though we reinvent ourselves from time to time we’re still the same person, and we’re just different and hopeful for what will come of these transformations we give ourselves. I too have left parts of myself in people I no longer know. I have felt the hands of loved ones unlovingly grasping and clawing and connecting their freshly bruised knuckles to my body again and again. I have felt the December chill standing alone atop a pair of train tracks. I have danced under rustic barn lights, a chorus of laughter and cheers engulfing the room the way a fire floods a family home. I have died and been reborn, changed, whether for better or worse is irrelevant. I am as I was, I am as I am now, and I am what I will be tomorrow, and I am none of and I am all of these, all at once. The plight of the phoenix is to exist, whether somatic or in the cerebral cortex of every soul it’s held in the clasp of its heart, it will be, burning brightly, traveling from land to land, gaining wisdom as it gains age, it will be. And when it is done being, it will burst into flames and it will die and when it has died it will reform and it may be the newest version of itself, but it will still be. And despite fearing the spark of samsara, so will I.

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To your pure heart, I reach,
Wishing to bloom my love as cherry blossoms

Will it touch you?
Will it hurt?

This fleeting love fades
When spring ends,

I scatter, softly,
A dream never coming back.
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Poem&Photo:Ruri

TEN
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Vernal
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By breath or tear
laughter or year
Nay, by hearts still pulsing
in love of me
When from this earth
I do leave
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