When I consider the garden in bloom,
I often pick a single flower to take
and put in the shade of my sullen room,
for perhaps a bit happier the room to make.
Lodged in languid emptiness it stares
from it’s protective vase on the windowsill
and secretly I wish it’s fares
to be less than mine, mine greater still.
But sooner, rather than later,
the flower withers, slowly, surely,
and the darkness seems to be something greater,
and I wish for the sun to shine, ever purely.
Tis not the flowers of the garden that bring
the birds in the sunshine of morn’ to sing.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 10:55 AM UTC
When I consider the garden in bloom,
I often pick a single flower to take
and put in the shade of my sullen room,
for perhaps a bit happier the room to make.
Lodged in languid emptiness it stares
from it’s protective vase on the windowsill
and secretly I wish it’s fares
to be less than mine, mine greater still.
But sooner, rather than later,
the flower withers, slowly, surely,
and the darkness seems to be something greater,
and I wish for the sun to shine, ever purely.
Tis not the flowers of the garden that bring
the birds in the sunshine of morn’ to sing.