Inside the Garden: the dissolution of this garden, or, moreover, myself

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Lynlee Derrick

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Inside the Garden: the dissolution of this garden, or, moreover, myself

A wilting flower.

A wilting flower.

A wilting flower.

A wilting flower.

With no one left whistling into the wild wind,

no one left wistfully waiting,

no one left willingly welcomed,

Garden sat alone and desolate but grinned.

 

There, in the heart—in the soul—of it all

the exponentially exploited flowers cowered

as if their stems lost life and love

when the lack of friendly buzz became that familiar call.

 

A silent yet deadly call from within,

a spinose, secluded phone trapped inside,

the noise invaded the air of Garden—the mind—

and cursed her with what could have been.

 

Images of those gone, of those lost,

of those she wished she could have loved,

those she wished she could have trust,

and those she wish she had never crossed,

 

flooded her eyes every sunrise and sunset,

a poisonous side effect of yet another one leaving.

 

But that tanged acceptance, that metal-barbed hope,

had always seen this coming and offered once more

that dark, metallic hug creeping up

that she always returned to cope.

 

As she fell once one more into those shadows,

as the weeds grew thicker and flower fell farther,

the pelting rain of sorrow scorched against her pained smile.

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