Garden of Thorn

A blind man meanders through a garden of thorns
Thinking that this is his ultimate home, unless

of course there is a thing unaddressed, the lacking of sight to test his obsessed

love for the spine and wish for the pain, he continues a waltz amongst blood as he feigns

a smile, a contentment for this place he is in where mercy is fake and love is a sin.

If he only knew the blessing of ignorance, as the blind man with sight would still see just darkness

encroaching and biting, inescapable fear, the thorns all slicing become harder to bear

so he keeps his eyes closed, by choice every- time, wishing to be free to make his own kind

of life in this hell, there’s beauty here right? This is it, but it can’t be, there’s something else…there might.

But to look for freedom requires a certain sight, a certainly painful recognition of plight, to fall on both knees and cry for the light.

That moment you would make this unpresuming statement, the thorns would burst forth in a showering blanket

of roses and strawberries, rivers and grass, light annihilating darkness and a stairway of glass

From which you’d rise to new heights and see down below
The rest of your friends who were suffering alone

You know that this the choice is ultimately yours, to rule over thorns or bow to the terms,
of a God
who made you, creating beauty and laughter, freedom from pain from now ever-after

You know the cost of the kingship you treasure,
soon you will know the weight of whichever
choice that you made, you can only make one
to finally see light or stay blind forever.