Listening to thistles
See the dandelions pose, their
dappled shadows spiked with
promises of war
between staying still and
stumbling further, for more.
all silly and forlorn,
teeth full of whistles and thorns.
Tempted by sharp blossoms
that gorge on the rose roots
to stab a fingertip and fall sleepily.
A representation of my child-shape,
he feeds me thistles; learn to listen
and it won't prick so deeply.
never heard of it.
Leaking through burr-bearing
pathways, faster than the rain.
I imagined flashbacks to be dry,
but 'been proven wrong again.
Nesting in an average, unpoetic corner of
standard, uncorrected folds of thought;
collection of mutterings that are unstrung,
too brittle for clutching, too cold to be caught.
AN: temporary return from writer's block/nonspecific laziness/exam combo thing, comments appreciated! :-D