The Rose Part 2

The thorn that pricks the wielding death to die among the living to shatter bones crippled in life grow.

Beneath the earth there is a sound a shifting color of war and grief cries in nature.

Rippling along the tides, holding on to the lost treasure at sea.

Washed upon shores cold and dirty, loud and echocentric.

A long way home from peace in outskirts of sun and life around as all.

Burdened to the cold street of greedy and hope.
 

 

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world

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