The Man In The Garden

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
this is a poem i wrote.

Submitted: December 18, 2012

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Submitted: December 18, 2012

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There is a man in the garden

who is painting all my thoughts

all the guesses

all the yes's 

all the won'ts

and I will nots

 

Some cannot see him

If the'yre not of the dreaming kind

but there he stands, painting 

in the garden of my mind

 

His brush is made of hairs

Of all the people I have met

And with those folks

He makes sweeping strokes

So that I don't forget

 

In the centre of his brush

Is one of Her hairs

as dark and bright

in gold and light

as when she left it on my stairs

 

Here it remains

making colored stains

on the canvas of my brain

painting my thoughts

with forget-me-nots

until i see her again

 

There is a man in the garden

who is painting my heart

combining his love

with my love

to produce a work of art

 

But i will never see

the painting he will make

and so, no more

of this metaphor 

for my sanity's sake

 

Now here i stand in my garden

with a paintbrush in my hand

i do not care

if it has her hair

because now i understand

 

Now I've finished painting

the landscape of my mind

and hidden it

in  a deep dark pit

that no one will ever find

 

There was a man in the garden

who painted just for me

is he still there?

or anywhere?

I can no longer see.


© Copyright 2018 jon lundberg. All rights reserved.

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