I sit in the half light of Edison's creation
with two pugil sticks in hand,
preparing for the next battle.
Two worn hands
brushing away the scabbing blood
from the face of this ancient warrior,
trapped inside the mind of a youth.
From thorns I came
awoken from the vines fate created.
Bound inside the embrace
of poisoned spikes I will tear away.
These elegant shackles
no longer hold me down.
No weight is strong enough to prison my spirit.
No self destructive intuitions for argument.
From thorns I leave,
walking head held high through mahogany doorways.
Through performance halls and sacred squares.
Through the lines of those hurt and helped.
From thorns I break free,
purchasing the light of tomorrow
with mistakes from the past,
letting experience guide me to a new beginning.