Thorns tear at my heart, scratching and ripping
as he walks down that lonely road
pulling the threads farther apart
he needs a knot to hang on to
just a snag in that wore out groove.
Scratching at the welt left behind
swollen and angry stupor
filling every shiver with ache
tangling across the silent trail
tripping him up, holding him down,
torn away too soon,
confused by the rambling brambles.
Too old to ask for help,
too young to admit defeat
spurred on by a point
a burr sticking to the wrong side
the way not a fork or turn.
Briars slashing his dreams,
cutting down his will to tread
drained by bloody barbs,
thistles or roses,
their scent wafts through the closed doors.