Your foliage is dipped in wine-red blood.
The thought comes unbidden –
Did you impale yourself on your thorns?
Shoulders back, you deny your wound and
Brandish rapiers high.
I admire from a distance;
repulsed and drawn by your beauty,
galled and fascinated,
desire  provokes me and I
reach.
The blood-drops
fall on your leaves,
trophies to add
to your
collection.

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