July 2005

Jaded Garden

The pathway curls down the green in haphazard symmetry.

The flowers sing their colours seductively,

And the grass creeps in, thickening at the edges,

Curious at the sunlight that fossilizes the path, stone-aged.

The cogwheel turns,

The wind, like a stranger, ruffles the skirts of the garden.

Sun bleeds more nectar

Until it becomes a blank white disk in the sky.

The tree turns

And shuts the gate, sighing;

Loving your shoulders.
~26th. July 2005

You’d probably go for people with a past, poets who suffered from depression, or musicians who are chained to their instruments, their voices forever locked within their notes. I wonder how your boots smell. I wonder if I can smell where you have been. Your hands are flowers not given to me will never open for me, will never touch me. Your mouth is sealed; will never open with words that are never for me. What’s in it, a name like mine; for you? A face, nothing more.
~29th. July 2005

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