There are many gardens, but mine is my own! (Poem: 9.5.20)
The red rose charms,
While colourless blends
Of spectral existential
Dread spreads,
Aimlessly, an affront
To the very nature
That it reflects
In a helix pod
Of chaotic ennui.
Seen anew,
A flawless seed disarms
The very fabric of time,
Unassailing in its
Irreverence and blithe
Dismissal of reality
That crops up,
Unexpectedly,
From the farm in mind.
The fruits of golden labour,
Pissing endlessly into
Precipitation and pointless
Preservation of nothing,
Nowhere and no one.
Perhaps with purpose
Hitherto unknown,
But inexorable as the tide
That rinses… Repeats… Remakes…
Hidden still
A glossy nectar
That promises the future
A bounty that awaits,
All of us,
Until it fails and,
Like winter after autumn,
Envelops all again,
Maelstromic and eternal.
AHF Writes 