Sometimes I like to get lost in the garden of my past
Bask beneath the moon of yesteryear,
lapping up her silvery rays of reminiscing.
I look around at the orchard of my recollection,
each tree ripe with the fruit of my memories.
This garden is my sanctuary.
This garden is my solace.
But sometimes this garden is my prison.
Sometimes the fruit is rotten and the trees are bare.
Sometimes the fields are barren and the fog blankets all celestial bodies.
Then it is darkness and numbness, not even the soft grass that caressed my infant feet can be felt.
It is a place of solitude, of serenity, and of  sorrow.
For it is here that I bury my forgotten dreams beneath the trees of fruition.
It is mine to tend and nurture.
As it is my only true possession.