Bloom

These trees. These trees of red. They tear me, scorn me, and weaken me Wrapped in fences a thousand feet tall. Their thorns laced in the very essence of envy, soil my soul My blood stains the trees crimson. But I look toward the sun to the day when it will all be okay. For these trees won’t stand together forever and when they part I will be a bud from the definition of strength. The trees, singularly, are just twigs They will only ever be crimson stained twigs And I will bloom