Garden of Eden

Let my selfish weavle thoughts

eat away at my sleep

sow what they reep

planting produce

mind in the dirt,

take a nap,

so I can wake up

with the roots of the sun in my eyes;

bright eyes on my mind.

Maybe I'll grow away from you,

stretch toward new morning dew:

a bent bow yew,

and I'll grow too.

But I know

this ground will drown in good intentions.

There's no cotton gin invention

to pull this tension tighter,

Lord knows you're a fighter.

But there isn't a fire, isn't a lighter

to burn what we have left here
and you know that I'm right.  Dear-

Mercy Almighty please pardon

this garden of flashback event

never eden-she used to be here footprints.

Becuase Lord I'm afraid

she's spat nothing but unholy fruit

and I haven't got the spade

to pull out these roots.