The Sharpest Thorn
He passes the bushes, grown large through time,
stretched out and misleading; the bright color petals; wide and open
he stops to gaze dreamily at them,
a genetic callback to an ancient insect perhaps,
he is intoxicated
he knows they must be trimmed, cared for,
but like other areas of his life,
he likes them this way; a bit wild and free
as he eases in one more step
he feels a long piecing burn
blood seeps out
and the stem bends away
look, but don’t touch.
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