The Garden

There exists in this world a garden where death walks,

Not one death, but many.  

Slowly plodding past row after row of pustulant posy, pot after pot of lying lily,

They water their loved ones, their facsimile of forgotten joy

Clothed in darkness beneath the blistering sun, they

Toil.

And they toil, clutching their treasured, withering stems and petals

For that which is dead brings life counterfeit.

Inspired by the painting by Hugo Simberg, The Garden of Death

Smeagol's Retort

Two earths sit fixed in space

Each an abyss, bounded by lace

All consuming, never eating

Always flittering, never fleeting.

One in darkness stands eclipsed

The billowing silk inside amidst

Placid waters, peaceful glass  

Silent carnage, still impasse. 

 

Home

“Sorrys” artfully delivered,

Pity to fill a bucket with no bottom

A thousand sneers seen and unseen

I regret nothing.

Diurnal conversation a picture on repeat,

“I’m feeling much better today,” “Good, glad to hear it” uttered with

A smile that would make Heath Leger cringe.

I vomit.

Perhaps poetic justice is a joke.

The designated evil lies here defeated

The infinitesimal, molecular miracles endure, and yet,

I whither.

Pain, puss, disappointment are my legacy, but

Men reap what they sow

Is that not what the good book teaches? Debt collector,

I await thee.

Night comes with fiery tendrils

First tiptoeing, then coursing through my room,

ensnaring my body in flame,  my bed a crucible

I weaken.

Twisting, thrashing, biting, clawing, clashing

My God, don’t let him take me

And in the midst of flame and shadow

He comes.

Tears and pleas are cast aside as he utters,

“Not all flames are from hell,

For sickness may bring them as well

Come home.”