Poison in the Prick

Do you imagine the rose like I do? 
Flitting across the stage in green dress and red hairㅡ darker than the rest of them and sharper too
But she certainly manages to keep the eyes of her audience
And her cast mates’ wist

When do you think they’ll notice her costume isn’t 
A costume, but a clue
To an underneath, a tangle of scrapes and scabs
Waiting to ensnare

Of course there’s something different
About imagination and reality

For one a rose’s thorns pierce deeper than you would have expected
And they’re half as pretty, too

You’ll grow wary of the rose, as she flits about
The stage and spins you into
A whirlwind of feelings
Because what is she, if not enticing?

Be wary of the rose, dear
And mind your imagination
Those thorns are more like vines
Threading through the bloodstream

A pierced vein is something you won’t heal easy
If there’s a poison in the prick.

{Kudos to a writer who recently wrote about roses. At least scars inspireㅡ hope you don’t mind me using yours.}