The Thorn

Rest your heads on pillows down,
worry not the thorn that turned my petals red.
Behind the smile that mocks the clown,
though all the while you walk around,
you sleep,
so deep,
you’re nearly dead.

Revel in your victories,
of shiny, polished, plastic gold,
what bargains you have made in trade,
what treasures you have sold,
to sit aloft a fallen world,
to have others call you a king,
you’ve gone and slipped your soul away,
you haven’t got a thing.

But, worry not, little ones,
they’ll make sure you’re well sedated,
a rebel generation lost,
Prozac eviscerated,
lest you should rise up and make a mess,
of what they have created.

Rest your heads on pillows down,
worry not, have no fear,
close your eyes and go to sleep,
there are a lot of devils here.





from “Winsome Vein”


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