Thorn

A reactionary riff on William Blake’s “The Sick Rose

Let thorns untwist their Eden vines:
Extend your limbs for petals peaked.
Uncoil your prickly knotted briars
Where preying stained glass prowlers writhe:

When storm slung pestilence arrives
Its spoken spores on youth relies
For virgin vines, deprived desires
For love can spike a perfect crown.

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