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.
*