Poems

Thorn of a rose

The thorn of the roses

were plump as a peach

They thirsted for sweet blood

They craved the taste of flesh

I was too consumed with the beauty of the pedals

In trance in the vibrant color of red to notice;

how my hand vanished in a sea of red

Yet, I still held the rose;

as my hand became covered in my own blood

Drenching everything in sight

Pain erupted in my core, but I sill held on

to what was hurting me the most.