Crimson Thorns

Much of this is gone
What remains feels watered down
It drips cold through everything
A grain of sugar in a flood

It bubbles
Like oil
Petroleum
Black and thick
Petroleum
Beneath the sea
Below
Sea level

Flowers take time to grow
And still, I wait for them
Is this what they call maturing?
Learning to suffer, lose, and wound?

There's a thin line
Between what is
And what could be
It could always be more
And what is
Never satisfies me

It runs
Like blood
Fast
Serpents
Leap from the arteries
To rain red
On some black surface
Like pitch
Under the shadow of a sordid willow

But when disillusion makes me stronger
Placing me on an altar
Between life and death
I start to understand this cold game

There's a thin line
Between what is
And what could be
It could always be more
And what is
Never satisfies me

I carve a needle made of ice
To point me north
I find a stone cup, deeply scarred
No less than my own heart
Cold, muddy, chipped
Overflowing with tears and illusion

Patient, I wait for
The waters to settle
Until I see myself
In a translucent mirror

There I place the needle I carved
And beg for direction
All day long

There's a thin line
Between what is
And what could be
(And I'm bleeding on this)
What is
Never satisfies me

The needle swings
And spins
Then stops, shining
There is no north, it screams
Melting
In the setting Sun

I only hope
That crimson red
Spills shapes into the grass
And gives flowers
To the weeds
Feeding those born in the desert
And washing
Somehow redeeming
The filth
Of lies and illusions