Thistles Growing In My Grass-Poem 10

Hurdles have been a battle of compromises, worse than thistles growing in my grass; they prick me when I weed them out; and I bleed on them when I'm fraught. Two souls crossed this long path of sultry stillness, one gladly went away, the other sadly stayed; restless is the one feeling wrath. The unfairness of fate is a crucial debate hurling words of hatred. The farther these footsteps trudge, the longer time delays their aim; hardening the core of rightful claim. The unuttered rage is another unheard cry of my wailing and it may suddenly cease along with the essence of my existence. Absurd the thought, the pretense of not weeping, there's much unneeded silence in this field of weeds; much has been endured at the bristling point of leaves- unable to find shade under a tree, I burn painfully. Life must return with the thrilling sounds of robins and blue jays, with gaudy flowers rising in the spring, and with a happy deer that leaps. I won't be a keeper of another failed quest; blackened clouds of a treacherous storm will turn bright by sunset... to bring all things to norm. Yes, tomorrow will open doors and dismiss restlessness, promising days without tears; I'll be able to live my life, without counting years, getting rid of the thistles growing in my grass.