Wild sorrow, exile,
you grow in the dense thicket
ripe with thorns.
Prickly leaves are yours,
hanging heavy with
all the loves ever loved alone,
all the words never uttered,
pangs of longing
useless to the busy world,
a world unsuspecting
of the million secret deaths within
caused by wild sorrow
and its piercing, untamed fruit,
the thorn.
2 comments:
Intense and well done!
And thanks so much for participating in last week's Limerick-Off. Hope to see you at the current one too!
I saw the words "no reply" on the code of your message,
so I mistakenly thought I wasn't supposed to reply! Having cleared that up, I now thank you for your kind words about my poem -- and for giving my brain a workout with your limerick challenge.
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