There was no name but The Rose.
She could not be addressed by another,
Her heart suspended, within its cage,
The wicked cage, a cage of thorns,
The beating flesh, bramble-torn,
The thorns, her own, those thorns
to remind her
of how she’d defined
in terms of giving.
But the brambles grew,
those wicked thorns,
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.