The Garden


Crying in the garden
where the rain washes down my face
capturing the tears
lest anyone sees.

But the flowers witness
and stare.
And the dull, damp air records
for posterity
his pain and despair –

that he who could have the Spring
to arouse and delight
and the Summer and the Autumn too
to dry his tears and to nurture his soul –

should choose instead
this cold winter’s morning
to live and fight for breath
and to drown
in his own loneliness.

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