It’s a pleasure
if someone can speak
speak their woes
their hurt
their scars
their ruins
unfortunately,
not all can speak
keep their heart out
because to world
it maybe rose
roses stitched outside
behold,
lies thorns
bleeding every inch of soul
to a garden full of rose
Bundle of thorns wrap
scarring
scratching
wounding the hands
limping wings at every nook
cutting off the flight
before it leaps
alas,
among the roses
the rose weeps
and beauty surrounds
calls it a dew of red
with blood all around….