The Living Thorns

We are the living thorns—

feral blood beneath our nails,

worn by wars we no longer name,

trembling at the gate of night,

each wound a burnt scripture,

each scar a prayer written backward.

We are the living thorns—

dripping with the rust of centuries,

weather-beaten relics of unfinished prayers,

our fingers torn by forbidden fruits,

our shadows cast on walls no longer listening.

We are the living thorns—

aching to touch the infinite,

to sip the embered breath of dusk,

to taste the bitter kiss of truth,

to drown in the silence between stars.

We are the living thorns—

unsated, restless,

we clutch at ghosts with blistered hands,

we hold the present in clenched fists,

our veins singing with the hunger of exile.

We are the living thorns—

our song a trembling echoe

strung through the hush of centuries,

our voices stretched like wire

through the folds of a vanishing dusk.

We are the living thorns—

each of us a broken psalm,

tattooed with the ink of despair,

crowned in the ash of forgotten wars,

still burning with the fever

of wanting

of wounding

of waking.

Yet—

With mouths torn open,

We press our fragile hymns

against the chest of time,

asking it to listen.

We still hum—

cracked, defiant—

hoping the hush will open

into the bright,

relentless & raw whir

of becoming.

We are the living thorns—

And the thorns remember the rose;

bent toward heaven,

bleed beauty

when kissed by light.

Let us dare to believe,

in spite of every cold gospel of apathy,

that,

the living thorns,

might yet become

the crown

of what we choose to save.

(c) Noémie Valcauda - photo & poetry

#poem #poetry #poesie #poet #writing