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.