The phoenix paragon.

I will buy you a gilded cage. It is tall enough so that you can stand, but your head is against the bars and your knees are bent. Your hips jut out at an angle and your twisted posture accentuates the curve of your thighs. I will poke you with carrot sticks and dribble water from my fingertips to keep you saited. You peer at me with your big eyes, watching, always watching. You grow crookedly, your head is forced downwards, elongating your neck. After a long time I open the door to the cage and hunker down on my haunches to watch you. Your eyes are saucerish, darting from my face to the open space beyond me, yet you will not run. You can no longer squeeze through the gaps, but remain, mute in your cage, my pet. I am responsible.