July 27, 2004

Coming down on fire.

The phoenix sat, his beak was nothing more
than a charred remain.
Her hand twitched, the anticipation of fingering the last remains
of an estranged avian tingled at the tips of her
prosthetic imagination.

Coloured discs were tossed carelessly
like tears and soiled rags
across the raging rooms of child’s play.

“It’s only war,” she said soothingly. “Soon they’ll fall asleep again.”
And the light clicked off.

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