A Rose For the Thorn
She planted roses
for my deathbed
and spit in my coffee.
Poured vinegar
into this heart
on my sleeve.
I held her up
in a high place while
she mocked.
Plotted and planned
when no one was around
to defend.
Controlled the mark
that sustained
life.
Every hour
belonged to
her.
Come
or go...
her decision.
Voodoo
and spaghetti
at my vigil.
Melted candles
smothered by
by dirt.
This light of mine,
snuffed out
by deception.
Victory
dancing on my
grave.
I dug
this hole for
myself.
The thorn
in her
flesh.
Berteena
Harmony of the Soul
10 February, 2019
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