My love garden remains unweeded,
Each planted flower slowly wilting.
A shadow spreads across my sunlight,
And a storm lingers without rainfall.
Sad teardrops fall from my broken heart,
No blood shed, yet my worlds fall apart.
Agony, sorrow, deep dejection—
Reflections in my shattered mirror.
My tear burns hot enough to bake bread,
Depression drapes a cloak on my head.
Love tortures like a lonely scarecrow,
Left to frighten birds in a rice field.
The bridge between our hearts lies broken,
Our love drifted with the tidal wave,
To an abyss filled with just sorrow,
Leaving my heart without tomorrow.
Writing is a gamble
we put in our words,
pull the slot
and read back our
cherries and lemons --
the object is to publish
our addiction
to connect with a reader
our casinos, the clan-forums
of acceptance and rejection
The poet
(excluding the jingle writer) --
least paid-out of all
literary devotionals --
priest and parishioner of countrysides
and hearts, secretly, vainly wonders
if his life’s refrain
but another of man’s many dear epitaphs
summaries in stone
unweeded
and forgotten --
Sun's life is long, but ends
We're immortal! This race pretends
In this sanguine world
The Jolly Roger's now unfurled
Corybantic, our fate
Sundial's shadow is marking late
The Great War is now past
The mad globe paralyzed at last
This unweeded garden
Awaiting the Royal Pardon
Gloom and doom ride the broom
Where the vultures disturb the tomb
The blind shall lead the blind
To a dank swamp of empty mind
Foul fiends who need glasses
Sell Anarchy to the masses
My mind fertile
Grows unplanted habituals
Among strange plants
I kneel to weed
The little shrubs
Of hate.
I do not plant
All that grows
But heart fertilize damp beds
With dark clouds of tears.
Memories has hidden rain
Floods that drown crops of joy:
The things I dream.
Wingless things,
Shadows of old dreams
That make fears sit up
And scream.
My mind a fertile place
Grows faith
Unweeded doubt thrive like spring
And I kneeling
Whisper
Prayers of repentance uprooting things
To keep my garden clean.
I pray the Holy Spirit
Rains
Tonight.
The roots of my faith struggle in the dry
Of soil and rough of stone
Where weed by design are better grown.
All growth is by water ruled,
I pray
I have soft clay
For the potter when He comes.