I am thistle,
not a rose
taking root in your days,
Under your skin,
enticing, calling forward,
my way.
I am colour in a dead sea,
Life, invading your space.
Defending,
with necessary pain,
I disgrace.
Yet, unharmed, I return,
Strongly, seeking life,
I grow, I thrive.
Under sun and cloud,
wind and ice.
Contrary I am,
springing to in your world.
Making your cultured rose,
look unkempt, imperfect.
Sting all who venture too near,
sharply spiked and curled.
Rose tended carefully,
lovingly nurtured, petted.
Thistle ripped cruely from earth,
Invasive, unwanted…
even though
I may flower,
beautifully…
If left
as I am.