Phoenix Of A Rose...

Cloaked in the colors of peace,
Not to be brought to her knees,
She seeks to unite,
The universe against his guilt,
He, who isn't contrite,
For the millions he does wilt.

She is a sunflower,
And, he keeps her alive;
But, she resents his power,
For fear he may deprive
Her, of what she needs,
As he does to most he feeds.

To protest, she aims to bloom,

Through the day and night,
Whatever the impending doom
For challenging his might.

She gains her whorl after whorl,
Resilient to his flares,
To turn into that one pretty pearl,
Who shines the world and dares
Him, who is the boss,
The very cause of her gloss.

And he does respond,
Does the stoic Czar,
How can he be fond,
From his abode afar?

Heat raining to burn,
She shrivels and scars,
Waning turn by turn,
Her support naught, not sparse.

The world about to sing her dirge,
She, seemingly not around,
From nothing she does again emerge,
Not to be run into the ground.

Again, she does swell,
To picket, thumb her nose,
To be that crown jewel,
That phoenix of a rose...