Cyanide
Our beautiful garden grows in the dark
a love kept hidden by the sun.
Petals reflect the moonlight and fire
flickers, ash lingers, lights spark.
The crow circles our field of fire
floating, crying, yelling at the sun.
"Why have you grown this garden?
Don't you know you'll tire?
Shining your light, it distracts you
taking away the light we fight for."
A single tree grows in the garden.
It grows in the summer
never wavering in the winter.
The garden wilts in a spring shade
and the crow watches above.
For the crow knows the sun,
after all, he molted with their feathers.
Setting on the horizon;
the first time this world saw light
The crow can only watch him rise and set,
the garden under their faithful sight.
The crow lands on its limb
pouring cyanide on the budding tree:
a flower that could never bloom.
The fruit rotting before the sun.
Leaves fall, bark peels, branches loom.
The tree is no more, the garden is free.
The crow returns to its nest,
looking at the horizon.
The sun is hard at work in his garden;
the plants untouched.
Metal glimmers, chimes sing in the wind.
A man filled with gold stands watch,
under faithful sight.
The crows stare, asking why
but the sun returns to the sky.
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