Till the garden
till the garden
turns a shade of red.
Here at this time
you could be someday-
rich or poor, maybe.
Here at this time
you are today
not knowing tomorrow's routine.
But here at this time
you can mean and say
what you want tomorrow to be.
A thick coat - from the world that is all he takes.
And whatever filled the coat's pockets - he gives it all away.
Piece by piece,
so that people may smile.
To the old, to the young,
and to every child.
Giving everything he had inside his coat.
Till another old man came by the road.
By body and by means,
was he so cold and crude,
That he asked the man
to give his coat away too.
With only a warm heart
The man did what he'd always do.
Letting out shallow breaths
against the thick winds that blew.
And later he laughed
at how his fate had served -
like a madman, crying, dying
and unheard by the suburbs.
They called it the shallow graves, the place where death plays
Spin the broken needle. it snows in July under here.
Under the bridge they huddle in their cardboard palaces ,
psychedelic moments followed by the falling in to oblivions grasp.
They slept in their depthless tombs, blankets hiding that moment
Of alone time where that last hit was the one that hit home.
I watch as so many lives that once were, are now gone, this
Place of broken syringes and dreams. Sleeping in hollow mounds.
Addicts under a bridge there blankets are their shallow graves when overdosing RIP another life gone due to drugs
A boy cared less of the dark in the woods or the smell of rot, upon coming across the tree that bore all fruits.
He climbed the tree with his eyes poised at the top, gleaming red in the night.
Upon reaching the top, he embraced the opportunity he had presented himself with - plucking fruits till his hands could hold no more.
Till his hands could hold no more.
Till his hands couldn't hold when he slipped.
Now he saw why it rot by the ground.
He rot by the ground, the darkness of the woods crawled over him with the tree top gleaming red overhead.
The traveler still sings the old plain song,
hoping to find the valley that once sang along.
In a bottled letter in the churning sea,
is hope sealed from the raging waters
waiting to be found.