Restoring her aura

Her aura changes like the wind.

Rare golden yellows twinned

with terracotta joy,

muffled through coy expressions

of blushing rose.

Dwelling on soul imperfection.

Emerald’s envy, Ruby’s rage,

violet vanity and superficial sage.

She sinks in heavy waves

of blue, most of the time.

How does she rekindle her colour,

when lost in the white panic

everything feels dark.

Black.

The suffocating lack of stark light

and spectrums to illuminate her aura

and restore what was there,

so exuberant and so fair.

But among the dark, in rare moments,

she resumes her climb,

breathing life back into her shine.

From night, the phoenix takes flight,

bursting into her technicolour prime.

And in these glints of reclamation

she feels the sublime

glimmer of gold,

and that’s enough.