A Morning Before The Season

Blackberry

Where do they go,
These thorns,
These tenacious stems
These bodies of blackened loins,
A sweet scent of summer melody.
How deeply they entrench,
Clutch, to vulnerable soils
Building to wild wish,
Appetite of annex
A slow storm determined
To seize what be before them,
Depleted in remorse,
Or so seems to eye,

Where do they go,
What be the desire,
Such delicacy hangs
From such force,
Such guard,
A drop of blood,
For a savory taste
Or a bitter tongue,
Though formidable.
But taste to be quenched.
Where do they go,
For purpose,
Or for satisfaction of invasion.