Heart Suspended

There was no name but The Rose.

She could not be addressed by another,

Her heart suspended, within its cage,

It hovered.

The wicked cage, a cage of thorns,

The beating flesh, bramble-torn,

The thorns, her own, those thorns

she’d grown

to remind her

of how she’d defined

her love

in terms of giving.

But the brambles grew,

those wicked thorns,

upon withdrawal,

most unforgiving.


© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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