Possibly the coolest poem I've written.
The Garden
I’m inching forward-
A kiss on your lips . . .
Your face held lightly
In my fingertips.
Your arms around me
We both embrace.
My hand is rising
At a steady pace.
I let out a moan,
Desire is real.
You let out a scream-
No- more of a squeal.
A great well of blood
Runs down your back.
Your eyes stay closed,
Not expecting attack.
Your body I drag,
Onto your grave.
But blood is so precious,
That I must save.
Take out the knife,
And open more wounds.
How ghastly you look
By the light of the moon.
Walk to the bedroom
While the blood flows,
And bring back the plant
Of the healthiest rose.
I fill to the top
The watering can.
Pour over blood
On the plant, that’s the plan.
Back at the body,
The blood is all gone.
So I ignite the burner
And yield ash from bone.
Ashes I take and
Spread on my soil,
An entire night’s worth
Of torment and toil.
I take up the ash,
And the can filled with blood,
I “water” my beauties
And stop when I should.
My hectic desire,
Fulfilled a day sooner.
The contest is won,
Thanks to that swooner.
I turn toward
The wall at my back.
A shelf lined with gold,
My fabulous plaques.
When the day has ended
My mood will then harden.
Dread that anyone
Find out about my garden.
