Cycles.

Set ablaze by an array of greys,

that grazed my grace like the gaze

of glazed, but gloomy, Sundays.

Every memory had a melody,

albeit one that made me muddy,

then melted away my better moods.

Trauma so toxic, it got sick,

then terrorized me ten times a week, 

just to teach me about adversity.

Until one vibrant dawn when I screamed,

"ENOUGH!" And shed the soiled skin 

society sentenced me to keep.

My spirit rose anew, reborn, again,

rapt in raging red, unyielding yellows,

and emancipating orange flames.

I suppose I should've shared that I am

still the same cyclical phoenix who strives to stay alive, to survive, to thrive, who's surely 

soared in every timeline yet.