Cornelius's Garden

Reads: 217  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 4

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Every garden says something about the gardener . . .

Submitted: March 28, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 28, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

The contents of my garden reflect my soul:

Tangled, fibrous, dragon's flower,
Witch's hair and devil's hour;
The crown of thorns with jagged spines;
Like nooses, hang the twisted vines,
O'er marshy mud.
A cupid, with its head cut off,
Stands on dead violets, rich and soft,
And my roses drip black blood.

Oh, don't you like my garden?

Dead leaves surround the fountain's gleam,
Which spouts out tears (or so I dream);
The daisies long ago have died --
They withered like a widowed bride
Whose love comes not.
Ivy, of the poisoned kind,
Has twined the trees, and through my mind,
Or more, my thoughts.

I love my pretty garden . . .

I think, sometimes, I see a wraith,
Which flitters in the empty space
Where once there stood a cherry tree
That grew, until destroyed by me --
'Twas in the way.
Or in the sunny iris patch,
Sometimes black shadows claw and snatch
To steal the day.

The garden's calling . . .

Beneath the weeping willow tree,
The shadows taunt me ruthlessly.
They know I fear their darkened depths
As much, or more than, pain and death,
Or flames of Hell.
For in the shadows, none can find
Freedom, love, or peace of mind,
Within their spirit's shell.

Not that I feel such things anyway . . .

My garden is a shrine to me,
Where life must leave, and let me be.
No thief can scale the garden walls,
Or hear the tortured, frightened calls
I can't choke back.
None but myself may enter here;
No other drinks the pool of tears,
Or sees the grass turn black.

But then, who else would want to?

I only stay a little while;
Enough to simulate a smile,
To give the world, so none will see
What's in my soul, and what's in me,
That courts the dark.
I tell myself I'll someday change,
I'll have a heart, be not so strange,
I'll love the dawn, and morning larks . . .

But who am I fooling?


© Copyright 2019 ScottishHarper. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply