If only we were told about the thorns
Beneath the rose. The beautiful pink haze
Of a field that I had walked through for days
Contrasts with red that coats my hands and warns
My future self of these dangers. Scars formed.
The days I spent struggling through the maze
Of brambles beneath flowers were a waste;
I wish I had avoided his dawn.
Sunlight! Shade! Stop blocking my way! I want
To be free from these suffocating thorns!
I want to climb away, the shadows haunt,
Thorns puncture and rip, I want this no more.
After all these years of walking, it daunts
On me that what I have done now is gore.
I need help; from here on in it's forlorn.
(I forgot to mention in the description that I accidentally added a line. I didn't know which line to remove so I left all 15 in.)
YOU ARE READING
Petrarchan Sonnet 1 - The Thorns Beneath The Rose
PoetryTRIGGER WARNING Violent language, implicit messages about self-harm. My second sonnet, and my first in an Italian/Petrarchan form.
