poem2

They are two different entities,
Born of the same source.
One is lovely, immortal,
The other brings only remorse.

The first, a divine beauty,
A Phoenix of fiery red.
She lives a thousand years,
Or so the story�s said.

The other, a sad and pitiful waste,
Is nothing but a pile of Ashes,
Commonplace, even hated,
From whence away the Phoenix dashes.

Then why, oh why?
My soul, the Phoenix, cries,
Does everyone love the Ashes?,
The part that only dies.

Of all the things that people want,
It seems most strange to me,
That most would choose Ashes
Over a Phoenix so rare and lovely.

It�s sad but true,
As it happens every day.
Ashes exalted;
A Phoenix thrown away.

For the Phoenix is not only
A bird of myth and magic.
She stands for the immortal soul;
To ignore her is tragic.

And the Ashes, you wonder?
Nothing more than the mortal coil.
Pretty for a short while,
And then reduced to mere soil.

When most are asked to choose just one,
It�s quite sad to note,
They will often choose the Ashes,
While off the Phoenix floats.

And the poor Phoenix!,
Whose passion never cools!
When will she be loved?
Not soon, for most men are fools!