Flowers, flowers and more pretty flowers.
That's all one ever thinks about Spring.

What about Thorns, I ask?
But no one seems to hear me.
All they want to know about is the Rose.

As the Spring I feel compressed,
Obstructed by the Strain of the stretching length.
Crushed by the load of impounding Stress.

But, I am a Rose.

My fragrance spreads joy to a billion others,
But no one releases me from the Thorn that binds me.

They're scared they say,
And I don't blame them.
For I beat myself to become this Rose.

So I stand, as Spring does,
Watched by a million eyes.

I bounce when the Stress of Summer arrives,
To live carefree another day.

Only to realize I've trampled on the Thorn.
The Thorn that Strains to cut the Rose away.

Everyone loved meandering to the Clearing,
Outlined by long snaky tendrils of golden grass.

The sun dips behind the meadow there,
Casting a purifiying blaze through the bearing breeze.

The baobab was still there, standing proud in the spotlight,
And we could do nothing but clamber, dreams in hand,
As we hoped the bough still held our weight.

The sun spun its final fiery wisp,
And buried itself deep in sand.

The fire gently licked the wood beneath us,
As we played with the ball of light in our hand.

One can always hear the soft purr of the leopard,
And the laughter of the hyena at the tears of the jackal,
If one only listened hard enough,
Like we did.

Finally the unaknowledged kings would appear,
And capture our eyes with their own twinkles.

We always lay awhile,
Holding hands and pointing with our leftover fingers,
At constellations that could only be seen in the deepest hour.

We would doze carelessly,
Leaving to Nature the breadth of our fall.

But instead of slipping away quietly,
Leaving only our little ball tied to the bark,
A dark hole swallowed us.

Mankind had taken it all.