.:R.I.S.E:.

I used to paint

the dawn and think that I

was made

of vivid pigment, like

the daybreak's ardent

spirit—

cyan,

violet,

marmalade and lilac pink:

clouds of apricot that decorate

her sunlit dress

with fire poppy spring—

bright like dragon’s breath upon

the skyline:

wild,

unbridled,

a child of

magnificence, untamed—

but now I know I’m not

the Day herself (I am)

her quiet,

constant promise—

I am her deepest thoughts,

her sleeping flame…

and though

I wink and wane

like shadowlight (and)

dreams, unblossomed, made

of stardust seeds in

winter woe—still, I glow.

I used to ache to be

an anthem (or)

the lark that lifts

the Earth's dark weight with lilt

and light

that rings.

Once upon a time I saw

my pieces harmonized,

in tandem—

set upon the path of queens

and kings,

but now I know I’m not

the .:monarch:., or

a treble clef with wings (I am)

a tethered lullaby—

a hanging womb

of acapella dreams (and though)

my scattered notes remain

as fragments—

broken,

mostly incomplete—still, I sing.

I used to wish I was

the masterpiece, but now I know I am

the masterpiece’s artist.

I am not the phoenix in

this lifetime—

I am her architect—and I

have crafted feathered limbs

from ashes,

night,

and darkness.

I once yearned to be the sun

but now I know I am

the ink that writes

the poetry of

life between the stars…

my wings beat soft as

moonlight—crescent, quartered, full

one day—still, I rise.