In the garden
I walk with not a trace
Of sadness.
The touch of brambles is enough.
To make my skin itch?
An understatement.
Worms fade like coffee-stained sunbeams
In the garden.
The warmth consumes everything, yet
Feels nothing.
By the callas a pair of dead eyes follow me
In the garden.
I gaze at dirty crystals dancing on leaves and then
A figure.
Moving above my chilled fingers, smelly flesh dissolving
In the garden.
We linger for a while,
Just staring.
As green turns to red.
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