Thorns
I am a poisonous thorn
among spring’s blooming flowers,
crumpled leaves and petals,
trampled by wandering feet.
Sanguine feet,
bloody thorn.
I stand alone,
a roadside stone
beside a field infested with thorns.
The dusk sky of a golden evening
leans over the spumy, distant sea.
I watch my shadow,
still black unlike a stone,
a long shadow without desire or pain,
something only I can trust.
My fugitive past hastens,
fading away,
leaving me behind,
unworthy, forgotten.
Ah, nostalgia…
They were before me,
perfect life,
the blooming flowers of spring.
But I remain,
standing in a vast garden of thorns,
becoming a thorn
with time.
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