Phoenix

You think just because I survived a sabre’s cut,

And charred skin on my face, or,

A fox, pierced through force, underneath my skirt, You can call, me, Victim?

I breathe, will live and thrive,

No victim, only a river of blood,

Flowing by, unstopped for centuries,

Covering the earth, in sands, out of sturdy rocks, I will carry on.

When they dragged me under the dirt of grounds,

And dropped me from the skies,

You heard a splash, and walked away, mocking me for the shame,

No Lazarus would encircle my porch,

Because of the other empty souls,

Now, if a dog barks at my shadows,

Or a man in black and white robes, asks me about the warmth of my bed,

If I shared many bodies, with my dermis before,

I don’t throw stones; the splash does no more hurts,

Even when you see it as my maliciousness of desires,

I survived. I survive.

And I see you all recede and disappear in forests oblivion,

When I turn my face, to the other side,

Of glares and snide,

And swoop through survival, by sheer indifference.

Yes, I survive.

You are victims, of tainted mind

And mouth lathered in bitter blood of gilded eras.

You are chained, in ancient mores.