A thorny rose
By Naomi C
Its soul is like a thorny rose
The burnt lines are scars of a previous life
The wood is rough,
it’s almost touching me
they call it a masterpiece
Burning fire, carving sounds
It’s a whirlwind of memories
Orange, crackle, crackle
tickled pink figs
Songs not too long ago
they call it a masterpiece
The whiff of a culture
And the strings of a masterpiece
A silver knife,
Trees’ death
they call it a masterpiece
It feels like a sharp spear
and warm in my palm
it keeps my secrets,
my little lovely lizard…
