What of the Phoenix Quill?

A quill is a curious thing,

It is a preservation of life focussed into creation.

Where gallant birds in life place theirs proud,

They may die knowing that in certain hands pride is forged after.

Pride of work; of creating. The creation of new things. A rite of birth.

But what of the feather of the phoenix?

A bird proud as any, but of the cycle life follows may not be,

A bird that curses its trace to ash by heat,

The phoenix dies knowing nothing new will be forged after.

Pride only in ending and returning; halting creating. A rite of rebirth.

And rebirth is stasis by means of veiled chaos,

Where the hearth is casing to that act of flame in control,

The phoenix has pride in that withheld rite.

So what of creation, if possible, by that

Which in essence repeats eternal, imperishable,

Can a creator birth? A paradox?

No. The phoenix quill is more.

A tale of beauty, ever retold.

A tale of majesty. A tale of gold.

A tale of sophy. A tale without cold.

That quill is not just pleasantries nor still-life on-hold.

That phoenix holds burden with its feather,

Oh, bearer of blessing and curse

Where, when chaos is that which is caged,

That creator would be limited. Their tool incompatible.

It would not matter if such a tale was put to page; for it would be the only tale.

A cyclical one.

The phoenix, then, cannot be proud.

His is a quill that would be blissful blight

Stories told could not end dark, nor could they light.

For his is not a story, but an anchor of life

A quill is a curious thing,