Haschen's blog: "Poems"

Heart of Thorns

Weeping wounds, a writhing morass of black,

Try as we may, there’s no escaping what we lack.

Cast about as you're wont to for mercy, there's no quarter here,

Only the slipping, or spilling, or the shimmering, unshed tear.

Come, tiny briar, wrap just right,

Hold together, squeeze real tight,

The vital pump and throb, which in darkness lays, 

By whose bloody course, even Death’s hand stays.

Dig in deep, show no concern for pain,

Lifelong, has been that constant bane.

Wind round and round, your barb’ed, beastly twine,

I’ll exchange one pain for another, willfully mine.

From within, you’ll protect from what is lurking without,

From every fake, every friend, every discarded doubt.

Be Elk’s Sedge in the fen, which nothing dares to touch,

Grimly wound, burn with blood, but, perhaps not overmuch.

For, every single being and every tiny, living thing, 

Is ultimately left alone to feel the dreadful sting,

That fated icy grip, so oft said to hold one tight, 

While stealing life, stealing love, from fading sight.

Constrict hard, beloved bramble, as tight as can be,

Strangle this withering pump, let it fall straight from thee.