Solipsistic Gardens

Feelings, emotional context. Why does it seem at points in our lives that we feel a lack of the emotion meant to be conveyed. We feel cold, uncaring. Not attending to the life that surrounds us.

The roses in the garden call and sway

in soft toned pinks and bleeding, crimson reds.

I could not guess so many shades of blood…

Seeping with infection, fatality,

and the pinks, so dainty and frangible

rest on the satin of the garden bed.

Those pinks so soft, desperate for warm touch,

flush at the contact of resentful winds

and beckon as they wither into death,

the satin bed lies their open casket.

And I, I gaze out distorted windows

at the destruction of the stale garden.

With my savage, brutal hands impassive,

outside my concern, a cold slate tombstone.