The Garden

This is laden with philosophy and religion, and shit.

The Garden

We never left the garden; it’s still here in our hearts.

The man who owned the house he built it beautiful and full of life,

With flowers fetching sunlight just to feed the eyes

And grasses where the children of enlightenment could learn to play.

Trees gazing ever-upwards for one day they’d reach the skies,

Propping up its canvas so that nighttime could dance on to day.

He hired me to weed and manage all the beauty there;

To pull up all the roots which goodness left alone, too scared

To touch with righteous fingers and commend as beauty’s own:

Never dipped into the Styx and sentenced to be rid.

But when I looked, I never did find evil’s rotten groan;

And within all the plants a beckoned brightness hid.

And when I turned the house had gone, and never have I found

His face again; the property a project without profit.

But gardening, unnoticed, I went on and worked the lands

As if it was a punishment he’d left to me to do.

Yet I could never weed up any plants, for guilty hands

Would wring my soul and bury me, I knew.

Many came and talked of how before these weeds had spread

The garden was a beacon bearing beauty in its every seed.

Their eyes, they never saw me; I guess that they preferred

To think no gardener could let such havoc wreak its course.

But there I stood and only beauty saw and only heard

The voices of unopened eyes, so hoarse.

I can’t decide if I am mad or if he tricked me from the start

And made sure everything that grows upon this land is beautiful.

But I have always shed a tear as I am growing older

That no one else will ever truly notice how I see,

And maybe beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder,

But it is all still beautiful to me.