Paradigm
You would think by now I know its vain
There was this time no anesthesia
Even though I was not immune to pain
Just the light dulce et gloria
And I was blind like Samson without the flame
I woke to winter and empty trees
Nothing to hide nakedness and shame
Except the chilly blanket of the breeze
I gave her a spade and told her plant
She made a sickle and a wreath
And I sang to it – still their sycophant
The gardener dreams while breathe.
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