There are thistles around my home,
How annoying I find them.
They prick at my skin,
They carry themselves inside my room.
They stick to my clothes,
They latch to the carpets.
How I despise them.
The fire rages outside my home,
How terrified I find it.
It licks the mountains,
It burns against my eyes.
The embers fall around me,
They whisper promises of destruction.
How I cower before them.
We drive far away from my home,
How panicked I find myself.
The wheels turn harder,
We move faster.
We stay in different places,
They hold me in comfort.
How I am numb to them.
I don’t sleep in my home,
How restless that makes me.
The blanket unfurls,
A thistle clings onto it.
My eyes prick with tears,
They remind me of home.
How I mourn with them.
I cling to the thistle,
It pricks my skin,
It pricks my soul.
It came from my home,
How I want to go home.