Role of the Dice

“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, ma