The withering old man
With roses in his beard
Is hunching forward
Head in his hands
Fingers bleeding
The blood running down his arm
Running from the thorns that aroused it
Finding somewhere dry
To dry
As the old man sits and festers
A whole human wound
Unwilling to trim the thorns
Unwilling to pick the flowers
But willing to let them
Sting him for hours
A Life in Poems 