Thorns, half an inch deep,
Yet you’re walking as if training yourself
Unfazed, unhindered, wincing inside,
Face expressionless.

Or even better, painted.

Thorns, an inch deep,
There’s more soot and grime now,
The pain is fading,
You smell victory.

Almost schizophrenic.

Thorns, two inches deep,
You are running,
They think it weird, there’s an angle to your step,
Nobody had ever noticed.

But him.

Thorns three inches deep,
Gone now.
A part of you.
You think.

He’s pounding on deaf ears.

Thorns, closer to the shallow than they’ll ever be.
You thought they were screams but they were sirens.
You hold yourself when he’s near.

You holler louder.

Wisdom, shallow, may seem to be blissful.
But the chivalric kind,
Is painful, is self-apologetic,

Is knowing to make the hard choices even when it seems to be too late.

Thorns, gone, now,
Blood, crimson.

Tomorrow is going to be beautiful.


13.07.2021