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
A feast of senses,
Ill filled dreams… sudden screams
Oh, impossible arousal
Wake me up from my garden bower
Let lust 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,
He’s coming back to the irreverent vanity.
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