Burning.

I have heard about the phoenix,
She who burns to be reborn -
But I am weary of my burning
And the ash it leaves behind.

Though I’m truly not so squeamish,
Still I seek a safer turning -
Wishing not to always mourn
The constant changing of my mind.

It’s not that I’ve escaped the yearning,
Wishing, hoping, flying blind -
It’s just that life’s path is so worn,
A twisting, turning double helix.

And how shall I traverse the churning
Maelstrom winds of choices scorned?
Perhaps I’ll walk the roads I find,
And leave the burning to the phoenix.