Role of the Dice

          The thorns’ scratch, and the thistles’ prick; a scar and a spear, and I’m sick.  Heals one, the other – not yet; a new earth and heaven wipes away fret.  The scar retells what is mine alone, but the hole won’t close until pain is gone.  I forget the thorns until feeling the scars; thistles’ ache be gone better by far.

          There’s no splendor in thorns, green receives green.  There’s allure in thistles, though mean stab unseen.  The thorns’ want can wound one’s dignity, but thistles’ raid bare others’ iniquity.  I should have known better when grasping the thorns, but of the subtilty of thistles matters not who warns.

          I live with blemishes thorns leave behind, but inside thistles’ wound no cure can I find.  Marks are thorns’ message I wasn’t too smart, but why’s thistles’ trauma never depart?  A former failed test, the latter no way declares; is thorns’ message mine and thistles’ theirs?

          The thorns’ truths and the thistles’ lies, may be revealed in the by and by.  The mistake of thinking time heals all wounds, is a cover for others to seal their doom.  The difference is a stone cast by ignorant hands, and the kiss of a friend with mischievous plans.

          Hear the bullhorns of thorns, but beware of whistles of thistles.  One’s a reminder, the other’s not accidental.  Harm from innocence may bring unrest, but the hurt of the guilty is cured best by death.  That’s the moral of thorns, and anon thistles pay sum; when time does cease, they’ll both be done.

          So wait for now for the new to take hold, ‘til then, resist sin and be bold.  Withstand torment and pain the thorns and thistles bring; soon sorrow will flee, and all will sing.  A new song, with new loves, where lies are not told; and the old?  Will be cast to the abyss as foretold.  There teeth are heard in the dark of the night; and the light?  Will watch thorns and thistles burn in delight.


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