thistle in the sweet

bothersome thorn
mark missed still struck dead
a breath unnamed
failure, once again

bled and turned
fits re-worn, holes now
in them shirtsleeves
chewed the apple’s worm

useless spells, fall unused
at the shore of wind-whipped wave
i stirred the break
and with anger set the foam

to spite her calming eyes
the soft tingle of her touch
i ate the flesh
snarling with disgust

but the knowing leaves
fumbled dry in decay
what once was green
a husk of moth flown into flame

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

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