The Thorn
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Finding the thorn on the stem slowly bleeding,
draining the life from the flower above
Sharp as a tack and as deadly as poison,
taking the breath from this moment of love
Growing alone on the garden path weeping,
death and decay climb the arbor of fear
Bramble and thicket collect in the corners,
nary a bloom or a petal is near
Brown, now the color that takes the advantage,
loneliness forms in the shadows you see
Stay farther back from your found expectations
before you learn that this thorn, it is me
7/10/20
Written for the: The Flower, The Thorn or Both Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
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