It twists,
It turns,
curling and furling.
Once at peace,
Inside, It now writhes and burns under an invisible heat.
Demanding why freedom now alludes,
when unhindered so long ago.
Wings once poised for flight,
now hang limp scorched with pain and plight.
Wings once poised to soar and glide on the winds of hope,
now stumble and struggle on such a treacherous slope.
Once It was colored bright,
now It smolders with hatred and rage,
as It stews in its own self made cage.
Stories and fantasy fade to mere memory,
no phoenix shall rise, for there is no longer a soul to carry.
In It's place, out of fire, shall rise a beast,
bred from the dank, dark, deep.
And from its mouth, venom will bubble forth,
for the time has come to settle the score.

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