The Garden DoorA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe garden at home, from what I recall Was massive and overgrown, More like a huge untended park That was mine to explore and roam. There were trees and shrubs and flowerbeds That were all burnt up and dried, I never saw anyone water it So most of the garden died. And my grandfather would wander about And he’d grumble under his beard, Mumble about his offspring, as he Wondered what he’d reared. ‘They all take after their mother’s side,’ He would say, ‘They have no spine, I’ve searched and searched for an Astrogoth But I don’t think that they’re mine.’ I doubted they really wanted me, They’d throw me over the fence, And say, ‘Go play with your grandfather, He’s more like you, and dense.’ Then off they’d go to the garden’s end To sit by the smoking pit, Whenever I’d ask if I could go My mother would throw a fit. ‘Don’t go to the end of the garden or We might just leave you there, Your cousin fell in the pit of hell And was burnt beyond compare.’ I watched the smoke pour out of the ground To see if my parents lied, But sure as hell, there were flames as well Right there, where my cousin died. One day I watched as it opened up To reveal the son of sin, My parents ventured a little close And then they had tumbled in, He yelled and roared, called on the Lord That he spared him in his den, ‘Just take your half-wits back,’ he cried, ‘My hell is not for them!’ I haven’t been to the garden now For years, since my Gramps took off, So I’m the only descendant now With the name of Astrogoth, That smoking pit with a door to it I have tried for years to sell, But nobody seems to want to buy A personal door to hell. David Lewis Paget
© 2016 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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