Never hurts to pluck a primrose's petals,
never bleeds to shed the tears of others.
Yet the hearts of those who always bleed,
are strongest o'er the putrid nettles,
for they know when the winter wroughts
its icy shadow upon the thorns of roses,
and when the thorns kill their kin's own petals.
With their broken wings and crippled limbs,
they be whom most able-bodied.
YOU ARE READING
ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ
PoetryLife and Death; Joy and Sorrow. They're just two wings to the same body.
