Marks of the thorns

In the wood, old beasts collapsed in silence:
First folding their bodies over their feet, 
Then, as their eyes shined the vile of violence
They'd slowly breathe away a last heartbeat. 
Finally, Time's clawing stiffened fingers
Would make these dead hulks rousing red roses. 
The rose thorns'd grow into something stronger, 
And intertwined like some mad cadences. 
Many decades later, some careless child
Would prance around these rouge patches of death. 
He'd try to bend these bouquets of the wild, 
And the thorns would prick him amidst his path. 
Then, he'd cry—for that fear from previous pain
In a thorn brought shivers like frosty rain.

Dale Chou
2001-05-13