My body burns with phoenix fire:
the sufferings of old sins,
fears crackling up with white-hot heat,
doubts choking with acrid smoke,
humiliation and shame ravaging
as if tongues of flame from infernal forges—
while inside the crucible, I and my disorder sit.
The disorder screams as the temperature climbs,
and perhaps so do I, but fire purifies.
If this is to be my pyre,
I will let it heat and consume us,
and burn until nothing impure remains—
until my Self rises from the crucible
like the reborn paragon of flaming wings
blazes upward in the sky,
trailing my illness's ashes from its pinions.
Let them fall scattered to the earth
and speak no more.
I cannot control the flames,
but my wings are mine to find.
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