This is an extended metaphor poem. Three guesses who it's about.

The Peonix is an elegant thing

Made of fire, strong and always

An eternal flame

In his heart, his soul, his eyes

He looks on the world, alone

Always

His brothers, his kin, have kindled

Their last, and he is.

When he flies, he soars

The Pheonix forgets

He lasts, he lives, he saves

And he always does save

The Pheonix has a heart of gold

Of fire

His mind more lovely than his wing

He flies, he lands, he touches the world.

Every world. All worlds.

The Pheonix has a heart of gold

And a beak as sharp as steel.

He saves, he defeats, he devours

Killers, and he is.

He never asks, never wants

Always moving, flying, forgetting,

Lasting, and he is.

The Pheonix dies.

In an explosive fire, he dies

His enemies, the killers, killed

By the fire, and he is.

The big bad wolf, the oncoming storm

A hero, a savior, a vengeful god

He is reborn

He is rekindled

Every death, cutting ties

The fire burns, the fire dies

From the ashes will arise

The Pheonix, flying in the skies

The fire burning in his eyes.