Cynical Phoenix Poem by Kevin Maroney

Who wouldn't pass a cynical laugh
now and then, given enough sass,
An opportunity to base it half,
it's value in a manner most crass.

Indeed, my dilemma laid at your feet,
an awful shame I can't see,
the answer right in front of me,
under my ever black'ning seat.

With a whip, dost thou become,
more cynical than the world some,
a crackling serpent, cackling loud,
at all your misfortune, a soon friendly sound.
To deal the cards, you must have a face,
fit for poker, a much harder race.
A race of titans, turned to stone,
in the sun which you once loved.

It burns you now, ever true,
more and more it turns to blue,
ashes fall upon your face,
and no more will again rise to grace.

A phoenix not, hath you become,
but that evil slayer to whom you've run,
to kill the egg, not let it sprout,
to more fiery grace than was without.

Deathly pale and sick you've seen
and ever more shall you hath been.