Phoenix Falling
Explosion, immolation, rending, cauterized...
He felt the swell of the blast deep in his bones. The explosion rolled out of his body. Fiery sparrows lit from his chest, the rib-bird cage shattered open. Arching out, burning wings and smoke, they flew. Skin reddened then blackened, baptized in fire, his lungs burning like paper, hair lit gold. Flesh and viscera sundered from seams, blood and slime, hot sizzle in the flare. The blast pulled, ripped, tore, mangled, destroyed him. The firebird blazed. It hurt like all hell, but God it was worth it.
Agony, pleasure, epiphany, freedom...
The pain of death and the kick of creation, sublime blending into exquisite sensation. Every nerve screaming fever pitch, synapse shock. It was fucking amazing. He was dying, dying a beautiful death and he'd never felt so alive. More, oh it was so much more than just fireworks. To feel the pull and burn of his art in his self, in his core... A bone-white smile twisted into place. It was the best release, better than sex, better than orgasm. He laughed with scorched breath, manic and mad and full of pure joy.
Beauty, glory, transience, art...
To live, create, destroy, die; to find enlightenment in the final great moment. The most beautiful and precious things, fleeting moths to singe wings and fall, lost. Diamond blue irises gleamed with insight, brilliant in the blaze as he vanished, consumed, in the bloody, fiery haze. He was right! Victory cry bore away on the smoke, a charred spirit; carbon-husk ghost holding fast to the one sweet truth:
Art was a motherfucking bang.
A/N: I didn't want to spoil the mood with a note at the beginning. Short lil' requiem for Deidara, king of live hard, die hard.
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