The Thorn

Soft. No blame to you do I give. Deep breaths.

I see no hope in your eyes, only fear.

Yet pregnancy need not precede defeat.

Look at the swelling bump on your thumb.

You refute its presence in mock disdain.

Yet one pluck removes its invading thorn!

One small pinch of the needle and tweezers,

An easily completed procedure,

A guest cleanly removed and soon forgot.

Ah, but then the thorn is suffering now!

If darkness be hell, the thorn a victim,

Basking in the sweltering confinement

Of a bloody, germ-infested bubble.

Yet let it free and it will breathe afresh,

A dark future replaced by unseen light,

Saving you from an even greater wound,

Preserving your strength for a bright future

In which one wound won’t doom you to fail.

Sweet love, let fact comfort loss. You have lived,

And are empress supreme of your body.

A thorn that pierced your defenses is gone.

There will be no retaliation felt,

No enemies lurking on the outskirts.

Freeing the thorn empowers you. You won.

            Left unchecked, the thorn would have killed you.

            Its presence was demonic in a way.

            Eradication was key to your growth.