Garden of a Wounded Soul

Like an ebony rose in a province of ivory and golden flowers, you poisoned each peaceful petal with your senseless scent of death. You were never just another floret. Was I a fool to sow your seed in hope your roots would grow strong, portraying saffron scarlet hues with an emerald stalk flourishing with verdant leaves in serene sapphire skies. When winds blew too boorishly, I held your supple sepal with bamboo hands, so your sunshine spirit would not perish to toxic storms from organic forces. I was willingly the earth to your foundations, but your breaths became too bitter, stinging in selfish stubborn sympathies, as wild weeds strangled your stalk. We could have nourished nectar with hungry insects in need of nurture, but your grudge left behind broken bridges with a trail of crumbling caterpillars seeking wings. Cuts from your thorns remain, ingrained as internal inflictions, but still I plant bulbs to bloom. To create an oasis of graceful charm, where blossoms of compassion softly soothe petals of pardon in a garden of a wounded soul. Forgiveness is a heavenly light. A radiant beacon illuminating through a canopy of trees, eradicating shadows of hatred you left behind like excessive weeds. A melody of redemption whispers in harmonious refrains breaking chains of regret with burdensome pains. To let go is like maturing buds releasing the grip of timeless hate, as my meadows are a symbol of a divine mantra only welcoming peace.