Hawthorns

Nobody sees the thorn lodged in his foot,
Nor feels the blood pooling ’round his toes.
The keep won’t guard itself, he thinks,
As his boot, now crimson, overflows.
And a forester’s felling somewhere,
Trees toppling one by one,
As a birch swings wrong and traps him there,
and, silently, he’s done.
And nobody hears a tree fall on the dead,
Nobody cares about a thorn in a sole
Until they’re bleeding on a stroll,
and the trees are falling on their head.

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