The Golden Thorns

As the East wind comes in,
And the biceps starts to hinder,
grasping onto the golden thorns,
Not proving how long the hand lasts,
Feeling the eternal sharpness,
Of the warrior’s blade,
Watching the boiling blood,
Dark full of demons,
As the furious wind wrestles,
Stealing their possessions,
Not to lose the riches,
Dig the knives into their flesh,
The hand colder than the old man’s,
The blood leaving burns as it trickles down,
As if was Anish Kapoor’s last,
Blood following their designated areas,
How poor,
How desperate,
Wait for the wind to end,
But when,
Until when,
Will it end,
Or let go,
Let the wind take it,
Let it live off the fatta the lan,
What if it stops,
Right as it leaves the grip of your hand,
But already miles away,
In that split second,
The chance of all the riches,
Gone like dead,
Two choices,
One act,
To be enured,
Or,
To be dropped,
How long,
How much blood,
For how long will you hold,
The golden thorns?