One by one, you pulled the thorns from my face,
Their poisons had stented my blood in its place.
To me unfelt, unseen, ever-present,
Many years later, lined my grave in a crescent.
This was the one which cared what they thought,
With a yellow arrow my sallow cheek caught.
This one circulates eternal regrets,
Its blue dart contused where the jawline sets.
This was the one that had me seeming unfit;
Piercing the skull and draining my wit.
This one pumped out time’s wasted pleasures,
I hung on the wall its dream-catching feathers;
This the one that stymied the truth,
Its sharpness the colours hidden in Ruth;
This one had my hapless soul bent,
Drained it away, my body for rent.
Gently you removed one last stemming thorn,
Kissed my forehead, my senses reborn;
Each needle carved in a craftsman’s way,
Filled with promise and lies and delay;
But the greatest lie of all I heard,
Was the one I stabbed in myself, and stirred.