Venomous Fever of Thorn

Hope through fever passed on by thorn,
stung by roses upon velvet twilight,
like nocturnal living, every night.
Like birds in flight, free birds,
beholding ignited sights, and burn freedom
till extinguishing with it,
till come a hollowed out wakeful morn,
hope spits out all that was sworn.
Its true! The sun shines again. 

Black dots against a glimmer,
big birds with big wings,
with lust for animal blood
between nests like pendulums swing.
Who wears the crown?
Who holds this reflection
of our world in dead eyes?
Neither is revolution dead, nor movement.
Living things sit on thrones conquered with psyche serpentine,
upon victory in wars waged against one's own kind,
charm the defeated into suffering,
thereby giving hope other many things.
Serpents do swallow their own tails.

Though roses blossom, like memories,
their venomous thorns dispel pain.
Like fever, delirium illumines
and hope levels us all again.