The fire doesn’t roar
it hums,
a soft, slow song
of endings dissolving
and new beginnings.
It curls around the bones
of everything we thought we were,
a kiss of heat,
a tender goodbye.
It burns,
it hurts,
but it’s never cruel.
It is the knowing
that nothing is lost
when the moment comes
to shed our skin.
In the flames,
the shadows we carried
melt away,
turning to ash,
soft as a memory
we can almost touch
but never hold.
The flames wrap around
like a lover,
fierce
familiar,
intimate,
taking what you’ve held too long,
turning it to dust,
so that you might rise.
Not broken,
but new.
Wings still smouldering,
eyes wide
in the light of rebirth.
This is how we end
not in despair,
but in the fire’s embrace,
its warmth urging us to unravel,
so we can be remade.
When the ashes settle,
we are rising like a phoenix.
No longer a shadow,
but a living flame,
alive
and unafraid
to burn again.
Emilie Turner 