The Garden Part II
I'm backing away,
Wind tickling my petals.
Perhaps I should wait
Untill the snow settles.
But no, I go on,
My spade in hand.
Planting my beauties
In a frozen wasteland.
All of the roses,
Both young and old,
Are ready to live
In the world of the cold.
A view from my windo,
Before I lay down in bed,
My beautiful flowers
A velvety red.
I wake up this morning,
All covered in sweat.
My mind on a dream,
A nightmare, regret.
Regret? Me?
I've done nothing wrong.
I did what I had to
To make my plants strong.
CAW! I turn-
My garden didn't grow?
A rose in the claws of
A great and manged crow.
A scream of fury-
And then it froze. . . .
For now I have spotted
A pale yellow rose.
A ring of yellow
Springing from ground
They see to surround . . .
A burial mound . . . .
I shriek-
Grab my knife, give it a hurl,
At the mound taking shape
Of a middle-aged girl.
Now it is rising,
A face taking shape . . .
A combination of victims,
Of a murder and rape.
I try and close it,
But I am too slow.
She accompanies the ice
Through my window.
Clay for her face,
Weed for her hair . . .
Stone hands grasp my throat,
She gives a blank stare.
I gurgle, the pain . . .
Oh, it is intense.
She hurls me out
The window, I fly through the fence.
The blood on my face
Keeps a steady flow,
As vines with sharp thorns
Jump out of the snow.
Then I see her,
Gliding towards me.
I'm giving the girl
A silent plea.
Out of the snow,
She plucks a pale rose.
As my eyes start to bleed,
So does my nose.
In goes the rose,
In the blood from my eyes . . .
I watch with red vision
As it shrivels and dies.
Expressionless face,
A knife made of stone,
I can't even sob
As she cuts through the bone.
The last thing I see,
Before I go blind,
my roses are smothering,
My body is vined.
My garden is no more,
As is me . . .
The hunted, turned hunter,
Now rests peacefully.
