Does sorrow weave a wreath of prickly shame,
To crown the brow of faith with thorny sting?
Or is it but a cruel and mocking game,
This heavy circlet that the ages bring?
A reel of wire, upon the fence it lies,
A jagged scar across the sun-scorched earth,
Where wild things wander, caught by sharp surprise,
And freedom finds a grim and bitter dearth.
The gentle deer, the rabbit in its plight,
Entangled limbs, a struggle to be free,
While rusty barbs reflect the fading light,
A testament to manâs harsh cruelty.
So question sorrow, for its shadowed art,
If this barbed wreath truly breaks the heart.
Wreath of Barbs
Tripod Location for Wreath of Barbs