I guess we’re growing old
like thistles in the drought-
parched park we all die
slow in summer;
Our seeds have blown away
as shadows slowly fall
to cover up the cracks
of crippled lovers.
We leave nothing more than dust
the carvings of a stone
that michaelang’lo smoothed
with sweat and a chisel;
For fate is just the same for
each and everyone so
face up to the Truth
and grasp the thistle.
It’s plain enough to tell
It’s not hidden in the puzzle
Life’s enigmatic Call –
Grasping the Thistle.