The Last

 

If I knew why it mattered, would it matter so much…

Would I slash it’s roots hard before it had me in its clutch?

 

Could I not have seen it come, at its creepy bower’s pace

With nasty grips and thorns besides with smiley flowery face.

 

I gladly nuzzled in fragranced boughs – surely these don’t bite!

All the while, even I could see, I was trapped in the land of trite.

 

Peeling the succour off my sleeves, I half heartedly tried to rise…

And as I made a move to leave, they were upon me in new disguise.

 

Showered with petals as gentle as love, who could, dear heart, be riven?

So here I am in state – or fate, the nail that must be driven.

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