Phoenix

How many times,
in this short life,

Have I gone,
like a moth to a flame,
burnt my wings,
and fallen to the ground.

Hot wax
dripping on my exposed underbelly.

This world
takes advantage of my kindness.

And then passing away,
shedding these mortal moth-skins,
and retreating to the cocoon.

Only to be re-born,
or perhaps re-incarnated?

With bigger wings,
so that I can glide over the injustice I see,
instead of stopping and picking my prey.

This time,
I fly for the Sun.

Singe my wings if you must, Sol

But this time I aim for greatness.