Garden of Irony

He breathes between winks in migraine pulse, throbbing against the challenge of an overly lustrous day. Watching halos fall through broken sun-glass hue, he wonders how much more the wind will break. Limbs rest in the arms of an aging garden, rotting and yet, still beautiful. Ivy swims beneath the man’s shadow, curling its way up, and opening its breast toward the promise of nirvana. He bends, takes a branch in his hands and ponders the irony of life, and its retirement. It feels fake in his hands, so he flicks the bark off its back, letting its naked remains fly in another direction, toward a rusting chariot, where it will be delivered unto a bed of flame. -James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.