Thorns

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A picture to paint, of thorns,
Coiled on a sternum of all,
With the thorns digging in,
Bleeding through a heart


A picture changes, each morn,
A different wound, the same clot
A new thorn, to adorn
A new picture, still a red blot


But a picture remains, still
Filled with thorns, still
Around this chest, still
Who thought only cuts could kill?\