I’m afraid my thistle-love is turning lately to some rounded sort of cash crop,
crop of yield and growing prices filling up the needs of bushels in the season,
peasant’s joy and Amish warmth and livestock chew within milky silent barns,
I’m afraid my love is getting new genetics, engineering, new-age change and strange improvement,
a thick skin, rough and tough enough to buff - carried away by big rigs only,
to endure self-destruction in them boring shelf half-lives in them busy supermarkets,
I’m afraid my thistle-love's turning now to a sort of weird tomato on the plate,
chewable by lazy jaws and eatable by crazy slows, with that stupid grain of salt,
losing prickles, pain and tickles, being pickles in a jar dull and stall “by the wall”,
when you touch it nothing prickles, nothing stings under the skin, spiky, thin,
that you try in afterhours make believes to take it out with a needle that embroiders
happiness with golden smile and a thread of thousand mile having it under your skin…

3 Komente


me likessmiley

Thanks, Ruzh and En!

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