I knew a rogue gardener
who had a peculiar mind
and walked as if
he had never seen a kind
of flowers, fully bloomed,
for the sunshine consumed
was enough to be happy
for the world.
Roots soaked in acid rain
pump sweet life on through veins
faster than the gardener's car,
which couldn't get him very far
from brilliant potent petal potions
bursting plant like a star.
I was a super nova spinning 'round
when a garden knife cut off the sound.
Sitting in vases
in a pool of life
drinking from a filter
and watching you white
your head, shoes, and coat
although you're quite the antidote.
Digging through my secret grave
to **** the roots and fight free slaves,
quiet, growing 'neath the earth
and recognize  what life is worth,
is a duty but few will come to do;
flee the blind or pay the due.
The only difference
lies in soil stains
because for flowers and master,
flowers drink rain, eat sun rays,
and bloom again,
despite the soil on their roots
and sharp edge tools lined in soots
held by seeding hands
and a heart run with moot
points a direction
and plants a firm foot.

Today I ran the other way
and it turned out to be the best day
I've had in my life.
It may not be right,
but I know I'm not wrong,
so I'm leaving tonight,
tuning out the noise,
seeing the sights.
Good bye for
as long as it takes.

Good bye