You can have the roses, a hot mess
of magenta and bronze. Keep them.
Just leave me the thorns. Because,
survival is as licking honey, round
Just keep your bread and circuses,
and leave me, weathering a storm.
There is no reason to ridicule faith,
if you have gripe and doubt.
You can have the roses, no longer
soft and roseate. Keep them. Just,
leave me the thorns. Because I get
that they are bristling conceits, of
Let the chips fall where they may.
Photo credits: Reader’s Digest
Word group: roses, honey, storm, gripe, bristling, thorns.
Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads