"Truth" is the thing with thorns

“Truth” is the thing with thorns—
That demands bleeding through—
And blooms the words— despite disguise—
Beautiful or painful—

Pricks could hurt and Petals could heal—
Crimson is dark and warm—
Blossom elegant and steady—
Under the sun, they swarm—

Embrace it, for it is key—
Although the hearer may wince—
The freedom it brings— Worth trying,
Both have thorns about them.