They were right to be afraid.
Though they stood with spiny edge
and momentary pain to inflict,
their end was sure.
Their fathers had failed.
Their grandfathers had failed
and they too would succumb to spade and hale
and lay withering in the sun
like Sherman’s wake or the Five Hundred.
Torn from their safety,
pale and naked for all to see,
they had lost the battle,
but not the war
O, not the war.
For in the depths, out of reach
lay their revenge, their seed.
Their children would rise in their stead,
and spring forth again with thorny head
and raise edged spear.
With a snarl they would cry,
We are thus, and thus from God
to stab and prick on hand and sod
for His pleasure is ripe
when we do our acts.
Deny us not our right
to be reveled in His sight.

But to the fire they too will go
for as beautiful in their way
and as passing as the pain …

well, they’re just annoying.


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One Response to “Thistles”

  1. slpmartin Says:

    Really enjoyed reading and thinking about your poem…thanks for posting it.

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