Wild Roses

We the wild roses
grow on the rambling vine.
Confront the question this poses
seed the way of the disciplined mind.

A thorn this world to our senses
embedded savagely, our tortured flesh.
Lost in memory. Ancient cultivated terraces.
Sculptured beauty. Perfection now buried at rest.

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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