The screams are heard
from the garden,
from the jungle of my thoughts.
They're so foreign
in tihs paradise
but they are kin
to the madness in my mind.
I wonder if there's a killer
an assassin of childen -- of peace
and if it will spread its misery
like a tsunami of blood.
But as I lay
in the garden,
the Eve to his innocence
I realize that the screams
are my own.