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.