Thistles

And she gracefully danced in the carpet

Of roses, undisturbed by the thorns; she was harnessed

By the vines of creepers outstretching

From the bottom of the ancient building

That lay in the middle of the garden of ruby roses.

And her skin wasn't covered in red petals

But in pieces of curdling flesh

Ripped by the thorns she was oblivious to.

And like a little child, it went right through

Her mind, she couldn't find

Any reason to cry or complain

Twirling just like a ballerina,

She could feel those soft notes of twinkling music

And just like the simple ribbon, she leaped and twisted

On the ever reddening satin carpet

Where visual was lost to feeling

And beauty

Crying out, falling onto her

Rough scarred and calloused hands, a tear fell

And as the music quietened

Her sobs echoed, the crimson

Colored roses slowly wilting in her pain

Eventually, when the ground was bare and dead, crispy brown petals

Whispered regret

And the emerald vines retreated

Seeking sanctuary in

The eternal castle

She quietened, slowly coming to her feet and inhaled deeply

Quickly rising to her pointees

And elegantly spinning

Until the first brushes of color

Began appearing, hues of white now spreading across

that sacred dance floor.

The cycle of thistles

That lose their thorns with each

Step and pirouette