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The gardener plucks at his life’s work Soon his bower is dull and gone He fed his garden twice a day New thoughts and feelings Let the used fleet away He picked a rose, and kept it trimmed Looking into it’s blank face He became lost in beauty Looking at it’s divine thorns He became found in pain Ill filled dreams… sudden screams Oh, impossible arousal Wake me up from my garden bower Let magic roam free for a final hour I looked too long at a fragile space I lost my haven to an unselfish place What happened when the garden bloomed? Newfound ego led the gardener back to sanity.
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