In Praise Of Thorns

25 Nov


Speak of roses;
not of the blooms,
not of colors
nor the flowers;
not of petals,
whose silken touch,
with tender flesh,
may soften ours.

Speak then of thorns;
their piercing way,
their agonies,
their cause of pain;
for without strife,
and calloused hands,
no mark to show,
life lived in vain.

Speak of sorrow;
those needed thorns,
and wanton woes,
avenged as bold;
for, without wounds
to know defeat,
no pride may come,
no story told.

Speak not beauty
that has no scars,
stood no trial,
nor bore such strife;
that beauty pales,
mere illusion,
no depth of heart,
no stay of life.

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Posted by on November 25, 2015 in My Poetry



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