One day, the fog lifted; against my bones
a nameless weight let go, floating away
like a winged phantom disappeared. How
strange, the immortal soul like dust
gliding idly, without skill or emotion.
Shall we agree the heart is large, burdened?
It burns and burns the substance inside it
before its gone, the source of its existence
darkened, charred. There is a bird, they say,
born from the fire, the color of sunrise.