thorn
among hundreds,
but just one,
just a single sharp
prick
against my arm,
then
thumb,
bringing the poetry
of blood,
in crimson drips,
that
makes me both weary
and wary
of the world
we live in.
but still foraging
through
the thickets, the bramble,
looking for
that clearing
at the pond.
No comments:
Post a Comment