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.