Love's ThornLike the dew which glistens amongst the grass,
A soft teardrop creeps silently from amidst the chaos,
Slowly meandering its way from home,
Wondering where it has come from,
And why.
Beckoning it to remain locked away,
The pain is too strong and it cannot control;
Cannot answer the nagging question of
What has become of the little one,
Now grown.
Like the bud of the rose, yellow as the sun,
Ripe and in bloom,
But only for an instant is the heart content.
For decay is inevitable; Death is awaiting.
So is the holder of this tear.
As the thorn which marks this rose,
The tear makes its mark on me,
Momentary joy, but eventually
Destiny succumbs.
The grass no longer glistens,
And like this heart,
The rose has wilted to dust.