deepundergroundpoetry.com
Thorns
I cup the flower
In my hand
But its fragrance
I cannot stand
Drawn by a myth
Of forevermore
Buts its thorns
Leave me sore
Beautiful
To a fault
I cannot condone
Its ever present assault
Born of betrayals
And ancient lies
Where only pain
Can reside
Lying down before me
Willing my tenderness
Asking for a love
I can not address
Petals fall
As I tear apart the flesh
Blood stained finger tips
Of which we are not meshed
© Indie Adams 2011
In my hand
But its fragrance
I cannot stand
Drawn by a myth
Of forevermore
Buts its thorns
Leave me sore
Beautiful
To a fault
I cannot condone
Its ever present assault
Born of betrayals
And ancient lies
Where only pain
Can reside
Lying down before me
Willing my tenderness
Asking for a love
I can not address
Petals fall
As I tear apart the flesh
Blood stained finger tips
Of which we are not meshed
© Indie Adams 2011
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