Beautiful Beast

As they float upon the clouds,
carried along by
the gentle zephyr,
it seems to be
ominous:
the waiting, the wondering.

Dreams and schemes come and go
yet there is always a truth:
every effort eventually dies,
replaced by failure
or victory.

Amidst all the madness,
I find myself
a roseless thorn
scratching and tearing at
those who touch me.

Were I to possess petals
once more,
I’d be a beauty
once more;
yet sealed is my fate,
for never again shall I bloom.

Clouds float above me
with the zephyr blowing past,
while I’m stuck in the ground
neither moving forward
nor back.