Here you are again
in the place that
dragged you down.
This place knows not
your name;
abandon your fanciful
ideas of familiarity
and walk away.
For there was always an exit,
a path you’ve shrouded
with shrubbery of the mind.

That place was always a garden
for flowers
and weeds too;
the weeds you
trimmed and preened
and grew into ‘beautiful’,
‘meaningful’ pillars of self-loathing
and bonds, wishing appreciation
for your horticultural skills.

Your Garden of Mind is pathetic.
So here I am.
I’m a chainsaw.
I’m the fire.
Tear down the weed pillars,
set fire to the shrubbery
on the path.
Let the flowers be.


2 thoughts on “Garden

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