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
rugged corners.

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 
human nature.

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

& on Monday Writes @ My Blog – Verses

verses

Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United