Sometimes by the stroll.

Sometimes, by the stroll.

 

It captivates collections,

Forcing to fly, even I.

By the side wayward,

And to leave away;

Pricking, but not hurting,

Causing the trickle

And becoming dust.

Enduring, my dear, impact,

Throughout knows of beauty.

Resulting from course

To recycle and rebirth,

The rose below,

And grows along.

 

Yet I sit and I question,

I wonder, and grieve;

Is it more he? Then me?

Pondering more,

An end to the mind,

I sit, I must,

And watch the blood bloom.