The Phoenix

I spend my days in a brutal fight
To undo the ravages of living this life.
To turn around and remember who I was
Before this life twisted and pulled.
And I no longer recognized this woman out or inside.
Who is this person, this old thing, this stranger?
And where has the girl gone to hide?

I stand at my mirror on days of great courage,
But in silent wisdom it replies in response.
It offers no pity, nor tears for lost youth,
As cold to the touch as the reflections of truth.

“This is the you that you have become,” my mirror says softly.
“This is your life, this is yours now.
Don’t question the Artist why he paints what he chooses,
The stroke of his brush or the colors he uses.
For you are a canvas the Master is painting.
A work yet unfinished, a constant design.
A plan all along for a destiny burning,
Out of the ashes, your purpose will rise.”