We are all
flowers on the razor wire.
Some of us
blossom and some of us don't-
We become roses made of titanium,
whose
leaves are drops of new-shed blood.
All of us, swaying in the wind
and the rain
and the snow.
One long vine made of thorns
and moonlight.
And those that don't bloom
eventually ice over and
f
a
l
l
and crack into a thousand tiny shards
that decay and feed the remaining rosebuds.