Turning around will get you impaled by your own thorns.
Bending down will infect you with the rot of age that clings to your peers.
Past, present, future – all hold pain in a rusted challis.
Before, behind, between – all promise prepositional gloom.
Can no one gift you with what you need to survive?
You know the stench of death comes for you.
Inevitable blight, this root-rot, this fungal spot to strip your leaves of anything of value.
Your only hope is to look up…
Up, where rainbows wink from musical mist.
Up, where the sun tracks his path in a chariot of thorough-bred firebrands.
Up, where Grace lives, where mercy rains from silver-lined clouds.
Up, where King and Court convene to bring justice at last.
Little rose, golden child –