... brambles...
… barbs…
… closing my eyes… better to smell the roses…
but they were not there… instead a drag of brambles around my legs…
… those clinging tentacles, the grasp of encroaching scrubland…
seeking to strangle - engulfing me and my aspirations…
…easier to surrender… give in… give up…
closing my eyes… better to dream than to aspire…
… drifting in a fantasy world that neither sustains nor rewards…
providing that anaesthetic to brambles and thorns…
© Peter Hunter 2012
Read Peter Hunter's full-length works on Kindle
