Savaged by a prickly bush,
Perforated all over my body as I turned red and blotchy,
Fallen from the thin air of my sanity,
Rested in the thorns of blank pages and my bricked up imagination,
My mind hazed and my skin elevated as a sense of emptiness causes me to shiver,
But then honey seemed to fall from above,
Droplets of warm gold dripping on my forehead,
In my hair, now unthreading from in- between the thorns,
Filling in my lacerations with notions and soon to be euphonious pieces,
Dissolving the prickly bush which surrounded my artistry,
And finally allowing my pencil to flow smoothly on the paper.
