Concerning the Thorns – Jake Mable

I grow a pine garden,

And watery-eyed poets scoff,

“Where are your roses?

Your garden is pitiful.

No vibrant fire-color, no flowers

To impress and daze.”


The rose is beautiful.

But the pine is humble.

It adapts to frozen crystal nights,

While the rose resists with flame and blood.

The needles of the pine are honest,

And it bears neither flower nor fruit.

The rose dons a red façade

Concealing its thorns.


I have observed fools approach

And reach out, fuelled by songs

Dedicated to the flower,

But in their drunken dreams

Forgetting the thorns.


Thorns penetrate soft inexperienced fingers.

Syringes draw blood

From fool to flower.

The blood gives those petals

Their vibrant red taunt.


No one dies for the pine.

But heaps of scorched anaemic corpses

Prostrate in the soil

Hugging and grasping,

Serving as fertilizer for a rose garden.


Heaps of anaemic corpses,

Merged and molten in one pile,

While I observe alone,

Frozen and free.