The Phoenix now at fatal height,
Seeming thrice-reborn,
Twists and writhes until She shows
Her true immortal form —
A maid of haunting fire
With metal wings untorn,
The Angel of Intensity,
The Vengeance of a Storm.
Her hair is reddish silver.
Her hands are starlit white.
Her plumage, now Her armour,
Does glint with cruel delight.
With claps of horrid thunder
And windy, echo'd voice,
She sternly airs Her verdict.
We listen with no choice.
"Fools!
I hail from the Mountains —
The vicious, fiery peaks.
We reign with ancient talons
And stab with ancient beaks.
I wager'd with my armoured kin
That humans could be kind,
But now I find you're just like us —
No...
Lesser! Though you try!
"My nesting was a test!
You dar'd to crush my young?
Such tiny tools you have.
You'd crack not even one!
You've little wit and care —
Sweet words but toxic teeth.
You'd harm a charmèd heart.
No wonder you're Beneath!
I'll fly back to my Mountains,
Be totally re-nerv'd.
Your ills and pains and deaths, however —
All are well-deserv'd.
"Oh, tiny, tiny people.
You play such tiny roles.
You think you're hardy victors.
I pity all you souls.
Enjoy your petty wars
And little profits won.
Enjoy your petty crowns
And little deals done.
Keep playing make-believe.
Your swords will always rust.
You'll never know True Power.
You'll never soar like Us!"
END
____
PS: I wanted to end it like this, for the Phoenix to have the final say, like Judge Judy, then fly back to the Mountains, leaving the mob humiliated/emasculated.
An alternate ending included the Phoenix destroying the town with fire and fury, revealed via a quatrain epilogue. I didn't like this idea. Though the Phoenix lost the bet, burning the town would've been unnecessary/excessive. She would've proven the Pastor's assumptions correct — that all phoenixes are evil. Though phoenixes are armed with belligerent potential, they can also be merciful.
Nevertheless, here's the quatrain (for those who want it):
Ten years have flown by since the day
The town burnt down and fell away.
Most folk had made it out alive.
Some say some deaths were justified.
YOU ARE READING
The Phoenix on the Roof
Poetry"Still the phoenix sits upon / The world in fearsome form, / With a crown upon her head / And the beauty of a storm." Newfound World, c. 1699: A phoenix nests on the roof of a house in a small colonial town, sending ripples throughout the community...
