Thorns ©

Beauty fades, sweet smell dies,

softness falls silently to the floor.

All of what was is washed away,

memories marched out the door.

Reaching out to gently grasp

what once was soft and sweet,

only sharp sticking thorns of

hurting words fingertips meet.

Blood slowly trickles down as

the thorns prick thick skin.

Pain numbed with practice,

buried down deep within.

Pain an ever present risk,

of thorny experiences past,

I still reach for each rose,

and try to forget the last.

© copyright 2009 mikeramsey