THE DARK THORN FLOWER

Gay and mad are the ones who wear The twined red rose with a raffish air; Glad the ones who may twist a wreath Of roadside clover or gypsy heath; Proud the brow that may boast the laurel Wreath of silver or red carved coral; But they are doomed who are born to wear The dark thorn flower in their hair; They are cursed who must always mourn Scars that betray the dark harsh thorn.

The touch of clover is clean and cool And cool the lilies plucked from a pool; Sweet the breath of a strand of May And sweet a ribband of August hay; Ginger petals are white and smooth; Fern fronds heal and poppies soothe. But dark thorn flowers are red as shame And the barbs are cruel as blades of flame. Those who smile while a sick heart grieves Know the scourge of the dark thorn leaves.

One will lift his chin with pride,

And callous his aching flesh to hide.

The wounds that mark where a faith has died

Crucified by the thorn.

The brave will laugh to still the pain.

The bitter mock and turn insane

While weaklings die with a festered brain

Stabbed by the jagged thorn.

Theirs a crown of bleak despair;

Theirs a sorrow they may not share,

And none may know so none may care

That they bear the dark thorn flower.

Whom may they turn to... whom may they trust?

Why should they suffer the rankling thrust?

God, I suppose, knows why they must.

He made the dark thorn flower.

one

-Bill Badger

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