You inflicted pain,
Spoke silence,
Your words would,
Cower before.
You settled in me,
Hate,
For myself.
A thorn grew,
Out of the earth,
Where a rose,
Should've thrived.
You became,
The worst in me,
As I live,
Down this road.
You rest,
I bid you peace.
I carry on,
A mask of the other,
The soul,
Of those gone.
I grew thorns,
Another came,
And cherished me,
Gave me flesh,
And I see the next bloom.
But,
Like the rose,
It would not last,
As a thing of beauty,
Never does.
You see,
The thorn was prickled,
Kept hidden to not hurt,
But the rose,
That was the other part,
Became,
What the world would want.
The cherisher,
Would look in a year,
And the thorn would smile.
It would be one,
Of false hope,
Because,
The pain,
Of a broken heart,
Is a realm,
Entirely of its own.
Few would dive,
And see,
The thorn would survive...
But,
Just barely.
