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.
I wrote it in about 3 minutes with absolutely no feeling or attatchment (although it does carry a story and morals that I believe in), would anyone say that I have potential for working with words? (also I am 14)
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