Everywhere you turn
You get pricked
The pain jerking you
This way, then that
You know you need
To stop moving
To make the pain cease
But the pain jerks you
Into another thorn
After each jerk you say
“I won’t do that again,”
And yet you do,
Pricking yourself on
Imaginary thorns as well
As those that are real,
So that after a while
You can’t tell
Which is which.
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