Thorn

A thistle can prick you as you walk by,

You dismiss it so quickly, keep your eyes dry.

Yet physical pain seems to be weak,

As there’s a greater pain caused by the one you seek.

It’s funny, I know, that love stikes fast,

But the longer it lingers, the longer the pain lasts.

Your mind may be weak, a shade of saddened grey,

I see you still yearn for that touch, the one that should stay.

Is it really sweeter to be crushed and torn,

Than to feel a brief infliction when stepping on a thorn?

 

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