there is a garden.
and i sit at her feet
and pick the daisies between her toes.
there are roses for sharon
though they do not smell as sweet.
for the gristle and meat buried at her feet.
and the weeping willow
as the wind brushes her hair.
i belive i can hear… there there.
the spiny pine.
long in the tooth poking the sky
showering me with sticks for my blind eye.
and the stones under my bones
the grass brown and worn.
the carpet i’ve trodden the flowers i’ve torn.
and in the shaking thunder
and the the needles of lightning.
the leaves are thrashing and oh so frightening.
where i sit and i stand
in a place called no man’s land.
the blackness and the bloodness… ain’t it grand?