Thorn Of The Rose Poem by Kevin Maroney

Deleterious, they smile so sickly,
each one a rose bush with thorns so very prickly.
The unique are blessed and cursed too,
only the pure ones are only cursed true.

Each deer is an example of millions,
none's an individual, worth more than a shilling.
Too much's placed on a soul truly weird,
for poison hidden in pure water should be truly feared.

Death's a beginning, both spiritual and life,
to another one's ending, an end to inner strife.
Who knows, where it will lead, till we die for sure,
not just in the physical, but also be cured,
when the pain stops, the heart starts beating,
when the death rocks, the crowds stop bleeding,
such lies do spill, till the sea is soaking
red and blue with pure black coating.

The dream, a dream, a nightmare trapped,
waiting to get out, the soul's a fact.