The Rose

A thorny rose
In the undergrowth
Of a sacred Iroko
Standing on a hill
By circumstance
But loving the
Shade provided
With the blood
Of sacrifices at
The Iroko root
By flower’s virtue
And nature’s
Glorious kiss
By illusionary Thorns
Dripping the Poison
Of intelligence

A thorny rose
Sits beside
A bushpath
Leading to the
Sacred Iroko’s root
Watches as
The other flowers
In valley’s meadow
Get plucked away
Notices some
Return deflowered
Just to get
Plucked again
Knows that
A kindred spirit
Will one day
Risk the thorns
Waits for
The man
Who plucked
The rose


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