When a child is born

When a child is born
It is but a blooded thorn
A blooded rose
Pricked of flesh
And pressed to breast in clothes
Some say it is odorless
And Spartan of any remiss
But however much promise
Extrapolates each individual soul
There is always an evil here at home
A cancer which inflicts a heavy weight
That lingers unsettlingly to pollinate
The innocent whilst they'd incubate
And then just like the rose
The black spot grows…

poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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