What can I say but that monotony inspires poetry?
Eventually,
it all became routine.
The cliff, the eagle, the blood.
There was a rhythm to it, a savage kind of defiance
in ceasing to struggle.
Every day became a small eternity,
its own cycle of destruction and reincarnation.
Every morning he blessed the sun for its renewal,
the fiery orb that both taunted and inspired him.
He blessed the sun,
the bright splash of daybreak,
the inward breath that told him he was whole once again.
He’d learned to number the clouds in their colors,
to lift his face and receive the light gratefully.
He would not blame the sun
though it was the herald of his doom,
bearing on its rays the swift and hungry eagle.
He of all people should know,
fire brings life as well as death.
