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A convulsive act to ruin the beauty
Whose appearance was its only duty.
Spontaneous combustion engulf the snow white petals,
In hopes that experience will make it better.
Watch the flames spit out of the rose,
Like a crimson-orange light show.
Now begins that meeting with fate,
Her soul dangling on the line: the bait.
Flames beat against the stem,
Flames beat against the petal.
Now the rose begins to bend.
Its heart was not made of metal.
The rose struggles and cries
To keep its innocence alive.
But flames are hot, tempting and strong,
Even roses wonder about right and wrong.
The beauty of a rose has been reduced to scented ashes.
Dirty and unclean, unlike anything you've ever seen.
But before your eyes, the rose gleans,
Forms into a new skin, to innocence's fiend.
Pheonix Roses will never die,
Try to push her down, and she'll learn to fly.
The winds have been harsh but hardly enough
To tear down a beauty so tough.
Count the slashes on her stem,
Watch them shine, like scars of gem.
Pheonix Roses may have sensitive skin,
But in the end they always win.