Thistles at a distance
thistles at a distance are a touch of amaranthine adorning the horizon of caustic worlds without heed for savage lonesomeness. For the sighs of the wretched, who trace the worn wooden slats of impossible pews, dragging down the aisle of transparent temple from the distance of the dreamer, fondle the distant amaranthine haze that hovers just so upon the hips of their altar- adornment to a heaven that would still be bright with sunlight above the wooden roof. No. To stand before a thistle is to kneel beneath sinister basilicas that rise as trees unto crucifixes from the terrain of planet without gods. to apprehend the poison in the milk of eternal youth. the rain beats down, wetting the hoary hairs in vulgar clumps that droop betwixt thorns- haunches of a bitch panting in a den fresh from some violence. (may we be forever spared from the screams of the foundations rubbing among the burs of this sandy loam beneath the stomping soles of the saved)
