Pluck a thistle, Plant a flower

Always when one dream ends,
Miles of my mind knows no end,
Little bit of the mud’s smell,
Jinxed with a thirsty snare,
Again hunting I go.
To meadows yellow, dancing to the fall’s snore.
I know …….
Again it will crush
Still…….
I pluck a thistle and plant a flower.

The fence of thorns ends the dream,
Casting dark silhouettes scream,
Shrill, uncouth piercing through the orange sheen,
They welcome me but what for,
A cup of warmth from a bottle of wrath?
Yet again hunting I go.
To the meadows yellow, dancing to the fall’s snore.
I know……..
Again it will crush
Still…..
I pluck a thistle and plant a flower.

Blowing away my withers too,
Felicity is what,
If not the humming bird romancing tendrils new,
A jaded fly will rest the petals,
Take a flight bold and dauntless,
And that will merry my heart more,
Chase away every scream and screech.
Who can dare to crush it now?
I found my strength.
Sentinel me….
Don’t dare a storm touch!
My Planted thistle,
My blooming flower.