In bloody neglect,
And unrequited compassion,
Flourishes the bramble thorn.
Call it ruby,
Sophisticated violence,
A sweet end
To meet the fool.
By any name,
The thorn of the vine
Will surely sting as sharp.
The nomenclator lies
To euphemize the product of blind faith.
It isn't the fool who rejects the thorn,
But rather he who accepts it.
In ignorance by deceiver's will,
Forever thrives the brier,
With fingers pricked, the liar sings
"This you must call freedom."
Author's note: damn, these author's notes kinda ruin the vibe.
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Trillium Beneath the Pines: An Original Poetry Compilation
PoetryA compilation of my poems, many of which explore the cyclical nature of the world: life and death, day and night, and the seasons.
