Let loose thy grip, O desperate thorn!
Grasping at flesh while fading into autumn—
trading blood for blood.
Have I not right to pluck before first frost?
Morality, you speak of—
through buds and petals, ripe with potential;
but, blind to growing mold,
you mutely prick.
Still, I pluck.
Having blood-red petals brush my soul with velvet,
assuaging stained innocence—
to watch anew the timely promise, full-blown.