With every feather he peels
The soft strands of colours lay to the side
Like fragile infants they sleep in its comfort
A burning warmth suffers like a young mother
Peeled away from its children it is left bare
Red and rich, fibres of a martyr’s love pound
Through and through it is full and small
In the palm of his hand it fits into my gaze
I beg him to stop as he makes my heart his
And the Phoenix shivers, eyes closed
Execution will come soon
And I am not ready to die again