Secret Garden
the secret garden of my mind
the weeds do flourish
the roses die.
a winding vine with brown decay
withering in such dismay
the putrid stench of lost regret
the aching heart
shall not forget.
and thus at midnight
ghost birds sing
a wreched song of misery.
skeleton butterflies
fluttering fierce
soil so damp and
water so scarce .
the secret garden of my mind
no sacrid beauty
you will find
just death and pain
and backwards thoughts
where weeds are planted
in cracking pots.
By Jeannette Villatoro ©
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
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