This Is A Title.

He was a dead man
Adorned in thorns
Wrapped up inside himself
Like the snow would
End his
Immortal difference
But it doesn't because
Snow only melts as it
Meets his skin;
Like the sun would
Rot his
Vulnerable skull but
It won't because he's
Already gone.

He was
Alive inside
Painfully human,
Like the cracks inside cement
That held weeds.

Not flowers,
But weeds because
He's stubborn as fuck
And I want to.
I want to
Take away his thorns,


But
He'll kill me.