Thorn-filled Epiphanies

Wavy, long locks
Spring from her skull
Like dandelions
In a deep, green meadow.
Her innocent eyes
Embrace her surroundings;
Such curiosity.
Such bravery.
Her rose-petal-lips
Untainted, untouched,
Breathe whispers of epiphanies.
She picks roses with dainty hands,
Wearing thimbles on her thumbs.
She’s intrigued.
She’s demure.
She doesn’t know
The sharpness of thorns.

-<33