I am waiting by my phone. Rather, my phone is waiting by me. Its screen is dark. No music spills forth to announce a caller. My stomach ties itself in knots, worry over what the who will say. I am preparing to leave, to sever my ties and find new faces and new places.
There is no fire yet.
The phoenix prepares to dance,
stripping from its robe.
Night descends, and I am still on my couch. My phone is waiting by me, and I wonder if it will always wait by me. Its screen is dark and the windows are dark. My face is illuminated by the computer screen, where I am searching for better options. Better chances to become who I want to be.
The scarecrow defends
a salted, abandoned field.
He is rising soon.
Dawn creeps through the windows, passing autumn leaves in trees, and I’m sure I’ll still be sitting here. My phone is no longer waiting for me. I press the numbers, and summon the strength to introduce myself. I must make the journey; the journey will not make me. I end the call, close my computer, and stand up. I am ready to take on the dawn.
Fire burns in his eyes,
reborn with a lightning strike.