Lips to a thorn.
Mind’s eye resting on a knife edge.
Subconscious mind reliving scars painted by a hand.
Memories turning tranquility to fire,
the past burning,
a dense smoke haunting each night.
A trick of twisted fate,
her feet set on a blind path when she turned out the light.
A midnight abusive world
where sharp betrayal drove the child to the edge,
the lingering child within needing healed each morning.
she gathered love and gratitude throughout the day,
the supplies she’d need to find her way along that cliff edge path.
Her lips to a thorn…
less painful when she opened her eyes to roses.
©September 2017, Christina Anne Hawthorne