I was aloft
Fluttering on a breeze
When I came upon a dream
The fire was a blaze
Drawing me in
And on
A thorny flower
A thistle
Not quite a thorn
In my mind was borne
A burden too heavy for my wings
No dismissal
It was real
I could feel
A loathsome darkness
No light could cut its strings
And let me fly aloft again
To escape the starkness
Of what had befallen me.
Perhaps I ought to see it another way
This thistle is not abysmal
It is beautiful at the end of the day
A symbol
Of resilience and power
In my mind I will say
"I made it, not impaled on a thorn
But to a branch of beauty
On which I will stay."