when its thorns bite and scratch
the page? Do you pluck each petal
and lay them flat, disembodied,
to act as nature’s wreathe?
Do you take scissors to the spine,
halve it, gut it like a sardine?
Do you snip each leaf, lay them
to rest around their own clothes –
convince everyone that beauty
If you saw an innocent
child lay frozen in the snow,
no ice cold mist passing her lips,
would you pluck each hair
from her head, press
them in your notebook?
Would you take an axe
to her spine when her fingers poked out
or her nails etched pleas
on the page?
Or would you cry over the loss
of a sweet, sweet child
and lay the rose
across her chest?
Copyright © 2016 Hannah Edge. All rights reserved.