So many never-ending moments spent in entanglement
With the black onyx thorny bushes growing inside the precocious grey chamber,
Expanding endlessly and scratching the newly built walls,
Spilling sacred red on the welcome mat—
Till the fallacious flood of dark claws and crimson plasma
Drowns out any other electrically excitable tree—
Forever staining it with pain and despair.
So young and vulnerable, self-conscious before self-aware,
One too many times unknowingly giving in to the piercing syringes
Injecting intrusive vantablack venom.
Too young to yet fight back,
The thorns have long ago pierced every inch of untainted surface,
Subduing the precocious mind,
Becoming one with the soul.
Now older, the I has come to grasp their meaning,
All too familiar faces with unforgettable names
Which it calls out in the void of emptiness,
And, although no longer wanting their company,
Safely retreats in their excruciating embrace,
For it is this that keeps it safe from the unknown residing beyond the wall of thorns.
Truth be told,
When the smothering fog is lifted
And a ray of sunshine is allowed to pierce through the clouds of stifling darkness,
The light is far too bright,
Hurting the eyes,
And only fleeting,
And before long,
The self sinks even deeper into the all too familiar dark embrace
Of the known.
For it is the thorns and nothing else that have always been there to hold,
Promising to never let go,
Shaping the I
With unwavering touch