Seemingly too Thorn(e) for She

 

Our encounters are thwart with indecisiveness,

As I contemplate the delicate rose within.

 

That thorn like the pedestal she placed him on,

Casts a shadow on her delicate blooms.

 

Shall I pluck her from her precarious position,

And place her in the golden vase of solitude?

 

In the past she’s masqueraded as a shrinking violet,

But lately she’s been trying on the bloom of an exotic,

Slightly out of reach.

 

Now she hesitates, quivers fearing the cut of rejection,

Imagined, not real, manifested in her own mind.

As, is it all.

 

For all she knows of the thorn is of her own imaginings,

And is aware of this through her connection to me,

Her guide, teacher, omni-present observer.

 

Still ours is but one perspective of the All,

Encountering the endless possibilities of Self.

 

Speak, Embrace, Be cut if need be. But never shrink back.

This is the advice I give.

 

I shall not rescue her, for what is there to be rescued from,

Other than her own fear.

 

Perhaps the thorn is not as sharp as she previously thought.

And if there be blood spilt, let it be spread upon the antecedent alter of togetherness,

 

To bear witness to the burning bush of Love.

For in reality the rose and the thorn stem from that, same Love.