writers – Thistle Thoughts

On Maturing

my wrath
drains crimson
down the bath

Flashes of lightning
illuminate you,
and I turn away
lest I cry.

I have learned to be glad
for the things I’ll
never understand

what pain looks like
but only to those
who allow themselves to feel it

Whispering birds,
frail and sunken-eyed

desert sun assaults us
in undulating flares

that glimmer in your eye
was terribly soothing

taught to wear
resiliency in braided hair

Yes, there are dark corners
to cling to

I want to call you up
and say that every
movie I watch lately
stars you.