Inside my body is a garden.
a piercing wound is closed by
Vines curling around the chasm
Pulling the two folds of skin ever closer.
And as it heals
A red rose blossoms, like a pink scar, otherwise.
This garden breathes
Its gills are a dewy’d, petal’d wonderland
Veins stretch like roots
Tendrils that ever entwine my flesh-soil
And bones like coal
Fossilize.
Into the depths of the earth they
Lay and wait.
The dark that keeps the cogs turning.
But what the eye cannot see,
it cannot truly hold beauty.
No beauty such as the blossoms
Sprouting from my wounds.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Inside my body is a garden.
a piercing wound is closed by
Vines curling around the chasm
Pulling the two folds of skin ever closer.
And as it heals
A red rose blossoms, like a pink scar, otherwise.
This garden breathes
Its gills are a dewy’d, petal’d wonderland
Veins stretch like roots
Tendrils that ever entwine my flesh-soil
And bones like coal
Fossilize.
Into the depths of the earth they
Lay and wait.
The dark that keeps the cogs turning.
But what the eye cannot see,
it cannot truly hold beauty.
No beauty such as the blossoms
Sprouting from my wounds.
Request permission to use this poem