Care

Speech was a field of thorns to crawl through on hands and knees. Skin splits and puckers while love is torn out. The force of the act leaves numbness and fear. But the roses were pretty and care was thrown away, now regret should stop masochism before it's too late. But maybe a hint of love hung on like pollen in the wounds. So crawl we must no matter the price, although only so much skin can tear away before bones bruise and a mark has been made. Weeds just grow thicker and spread like disease, no matter how attractive they seem. Martyrs crowd the fields all crawling alone, a sad song playing for each. The roots are satiated in the torrent of fuel, for martyrs bleed quite well. A plight is lovely but who really cares when all of us capture the same?