Artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge

Under cold lights, dark air and the still
All is quiet, nothing spoken no sound
Hangs the softest of rope from the hardest of beams
Hanging in a straight sort of proud
Reaching right down to the black and white rose
The rose who standing ready for more
To raise her like a dancer in a moment of yield
And display her like a trophy of war
And her hands are bound tight, legs are tied back,
shoulders, head and hips cannot moan,
And her hair is secured out of the way
She hangs defenseless and naked and owned
She lives for the love of these cold vivid nights,
obeys what the rope will demand,
She relishes the play of losing control,
when she submits to her dominant man