In the Garden
In The Glory of
the Garden
In the glory of the garden,
where they plant in oblong boxes,
is shadowed in horror's eyes
empty sockets not quite empty.
Terrible rattling of guilty souls
wandering past dead forests:
under a moon eyed monster's glare
the stinking saliva oozes sluggishly
over an angry earth spitting fire.
A man shivering alone,
back against a frigid wind of doubt,
embracing a wall that won't hold
the streaming stare of eternity.
The crumbling occurs all at once,
bringing down in thunder
illusionary mansions built from stones
of lost ancient tombs;
bellowing clouds of dust
rising short of heaven,
falling out to form
feed for worms
in the glory of the garden.
*
