(no subject)

You and I are pyrocantha
Short sweet blooming season
White tiny single roses
Lethal russet thorns
That if any try to penetrate
Or storm
Will find themselves impaled
Cut to ribbons
And bled beyond saving
Poisonous berries to all
but feasts to finches, great tits and crows
Tenacious and practically impossible to prune or cut
And the only way to be rid of it
Is to burn it beyond the ground
All the way through the roots
We are destruction and sweetness and lasting
Heady summer sent and bitter biting winter thorns
Fleeting and immortal
Thus we love, thus we bleed
Our hearts
Twined twisted
Reward and punishment
One

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