In the beginning was blood and fire
The thorn was chosen because it knew
Every morning was the whistling of sweet sounds
In all this, there was an open scar the feathers covered.
Time was shaped with its misfortunes
The ridged edges of its existence had been exposed
The sweet sounds faded, as the scars were poked over again
When skin became its clothing, it was nothing but ugliness.
Then reality spoke for itself with nothing to hold back
What it gave all for, plunged it deeper into the thorns
The image of selfishness was engraved on its feathers
Alas, thorns and scars are the clothing of the ugly bird void of feathers.