Garden
The garden haunts me with tales of terror
whispers the last sighs of wilting flowers
chills me with its predatory silence
torments me with its unheard shrieks
beauty edged with talons, thorns and stingers
innocence complicit in its evil
as hunter’s dance the hunted’s last duet
beneath the blood-stained moon of nature’s nest.
And yet, soft sun will rise as will the trill
of shadows slowly fleeing ‘neath their roots
for the moment now is all that matters
as daylight’s demons masquerade as couth
The garden is the stage and not the play
Its curtain call an avant-garde display.
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