In the evenings
She comes
To the garden,
That once was green
But now is brown,
At the season's end, in winter.
Yet, she still comes
For she loves
Being surrounded by
Pretty things, even though
Her lovely flower garden is dying.
The paling roses
Intertwined with the dying vines
Have made a gnarled sanctuary
No one can invade.
Her eyes fill with tears
As she slowly releases
The bubbles in her hand,
Wishing they were
Magic, not the regrets,
Broken promises and forgotten dreams
She's had in her life.
All that remains
Is a shadow
Of her former self.
She was young. She was foolish.
She was loved and
Full of life
When she ended her life
Much too soon
Since she felt
She'd lost all hope;
It was the only way
To escape the sorrow and pain.
Now her soul is here
Wandering the garden she planted
Wondering how her life
Could have been better spent. |
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