Rose Thorn
A Rose it’s long stem I hold,
close to the rose to not to spike my heart on its thorn..
A dozen roses lay beneath my cold beaten soul, the winds blowing cold harsh winds, roses blow away swept to the deserving souls in which he teaches within HIS church’s walls.
No laughter smiles heartfelt conversation I hear, he’s been sequestered inside our Saviors grasp up into the mountain to pray, Jesus chosen few, darkness falls upon thus unforgiving ground.
I slowly quietly lift my beaten scolded body down into the abyss, where the undeserving lie, waiting for a miracle to save them, no mercy dare come thus far, much like the unsheltered in this city fallen to despair, hate, darkness is now our reality.
My soft place to fall is gone, I prick my finger upon the rose thorn, much like our Saviors blood upon the cross flows, but my “friend” the mountain, “it is Gods will, my breath has stopped, I’ve bled for my own sins against my “friend” I ask you now, “will He come honor my Cross?”
The roses blanket my limp body, “every rise has its thorns”..
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