Thistle

I let her feel infinitesimal--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing  
Like spotting the most pitiful
Termite in a colony,
From the feathered security
Of the uppermost branch
Of a towering redwood
And knowing I could flee
From the fiery grasps
Of any predator,
Any cataclysm,
While she would succumb
To extermination.

I let her feel pellucid--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing
She grew uncultivated--
Bursting and blooming,
Unabated by the elements
Threatening to rip her
From her roots;
But her luster was enticing.
Euphoria crept over
My purple prickles
As I leached her warmth,
And she fell muted,
Withering away before
She'd even flowered fully.

I let her feel vacuous--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing.
As if skimming the meaningless
Scribbles of a toddler,
Searching for the signs
Of a prodigy,
And finding instead
Mediocre shapes
And miscarried notions
Of how damsels are liberated
From the holocaust
Of a tarragon--
When I know damn well
The hellion is me.

I let her feel vacant--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing.
Her inanimate corpse
Lay frigid and spiritless,
A crumpled mass of carbon
And antiquated stardust.
And for a moment,
I was buoyant and supple.
But only for a moment--
For now she, she can't feel a thing.
And like a moth,
Enslaved to the fleeting
Brilliance of that beacon,
I'm compelled to be blinded.