Phoenix

By Tatiana Pahlen

What makes us, mindless sapiens,
To restate our own mistakes;
Chronic pangs of a livid failure,
Accustomed to the tortuous edge?
Foul vanity, or utter joyance
Being burned anew at the stake?
As Phoenix crawls with reptilians,
Seared feathers arouse from dust;
Who is furtive, lives in the glitter
And learns from the senility past.