Roads leading to disappointment and a wall lined with rose thorns. No roses, the thorns only.
The roses, I cannot see. They are there, everyone else sees them, just not me.
I reach for them, but the thorns grow over my hands and arms and torso. I'm stuck now.
The thorns grow to swords, fencing with my fingers and toes. They jab and thrust, but never quite land.
They turn to fists, landing bruises acrossed my legs and arms. Somehow the pain is not there.
I want to feel the thorns. But I do not want to. It is quite a situation, if anyone is asking.
