A rose without thorns may please a lazy lover's eye
Easy pickings, safely plucked
From the bed of sterile innocence,
No stony ground lies beneath
To deviate the shallow roots,
No skin of neck for tongue, nor tooth;
But where's the passion?
Wheres the bleeding hand
That tried to grasp the untaimed thorny stem,
Despite the hidden promise of
The pleasure of the pain within?
When did the tangle of the Briar's wild embrace
Become the strangle of a vine
In the garden of the pure...
Misplaced?
