In the middle of a midnight song,
Came the parakeet,
A bird of flame,
A bird of deep indigo's keep,
And into that blessed night,
Of it's own song it gave,
Not born of fright,
Nor for mirth or sonnet's might,
Yet for rekindling of heaven's fire.
Be a hand to hold when cold winds whip about my ether and chill my skin, stinging at my core. For in those moments that flash of heat is interpreted as light by my deeper self. It triggers the response of the phoenix, combusting the darkness, to spread wings of flame and fly once more.
The Phoenix, after learning through its cycles of fire and ash, in time becomes an angel of pure energy, eternally bright.
The phoenix after so many cycles of fire and ash becomes an eternal invincible bird of pure golden energy.
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