Classic Poem

Orange wings dance,
a vision of shattered beauty-
thick flames turn ever slowly,
red and orange and all colors hellish.

They all dance, drifters, soarers-
poets and dancers and artists
all the soaring people, but
descent is painful, burning and burning,
all gone in smoke.

The hawks soar, preying on sore
paper-like wings-
they all stop beating and rising,
they sink like a cool black stone.

The stones burns to thin ash's,
a last remnant of something bright-
they try to rise but only sink.
When all are gone, the hawks stop and
wait.....
And they begin the slow, patient dance
again.