By: Robert Mattesky
A process that has been done a million times.
I lie in the ashen hill from which I hatched.
The once lush landscape now is blanketed with soot.
I spread my blood orange feathers once.
Their ruby exterior hides the fiery interior.
Upon flying for some time, I grow tired.
This once young, fiery soul desires rest.
Rapid aging has killed this body,
And the process must be renewed.
I choose to take a break and rest.
My once new body is now ragged, old.
I know what this feeling of decay is.
Categories: Lit Magazine