Some thorns yield flowers

art

Thorns for leaves, on prongs I live.
A whiff of relief, on reefs of disbelief.
I believe I’ll fare, though they treat me unfair.
A prosaic pawn, overdosed with nonchalance
Windswept promontory and aloof I stand.
Shunned by many, ”what value does he have?”.

To that I was a deaf peach, consoled by lores
of my erstwhile, endless lodes of humility
and found a track through quicksand,
Haven’t had much to smile about,
tapped up photos of my shredded esteem
which they tore with, “he is the greasy banana peel”.

I begged respite, got it in freshets
through cozy empty walls in the deserted memory hallway
to my father’s backyard, upon a wall.
Humpty dumpty, this time scaring crows,
scythed his loan, manicured his hedge,
yet he would loathe, “can’t use this cactus”.

Yet I prevailed without questioning Superman’s existence,
and churned Elysium in my beautiful mind.
Lost myself in thoughts of thoughts,
of taking Troy, vanquishing my demons.
Yet conquest was elusive even in such realms,
then I found myself saying “I am not good”.

Crooked branch of mimosa, no match for Leosa,
yet she whispered a chant of sacred absolution.
Embraced my temple, alas I’m no cactus,
but a beautifully plumage’d parrot on an odyssey into self.
Exultant thorn that makes a rose,
without which you can’t find those!

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