I am a cheater
I thread lies on my loom
But everytime I fake a smile
A blosom of hope does bloom

literate legends of the past
wordsworth, tennyson, shakespeare, poe
philosophers preaching wisdom
whilst churning words of woe

if born a century onward
their genius contribution
would re-direct thought
and our retribution

clever wit, used correctly
relays a message indirectly
be loud in voice
be strong in deed
plants that blosom
have nurtured seeds

learned men, with miserly souls
different values, different goals
hypothetically speaking, if resurrected
could this system be corrected

past vision blurred, future masked
the valley victim duly asked...
what make thee of my vale?
once vibrant, now lies stale

thine vale like a garment, tightly twined
sceptical of progress, wallow in decline
thy forefathers fester in premature tombs
martyrs to masters, grafted in gloom

thy dwell on the dead, thou should view ahead
though mystery of history must ever be read
tread forth with vision, or stumble ye blind
don't dwell on the dead, or land once mined

When looking for a girl we always look for the fairest,
say we want that rose,
that girl so perfect.

The beauty of the petals captivates and calls you closer.
The fragrance they give captures the victim in a deceptive aroma.

But go deeper down and you'll see her true beauty.
Deeper down to the depths of her deception.

The true beauty of the flower is revealed underneath.

The thorns of this rose will rip you open with lies and deceit.

Leave you bleeding and removed of your dignity,
not believing that such a beauty could do this to you.

Her fragrance will no longer smell so sweet. The colour of her petals will remind you of the pain they give,
hatred will blosom from you within,
for the rose ripped you open and cut through your skin.

Penetrated your heart with a knife you helped build.

That kiss you cherished.

That love which destroyed you from within.

I picked a rose bud for you ,
I found it on a rose bed ,
it is not dead .
But  if you water it ,
and give it room to grow ,
it will blosom into something you don’t know .
For its buds will one day open ,
perhaps when you are curled up in bed ,
and you will think of me when I have gone ,
and all the things I said .

I loved my gardening but as well the oldies
Nothing much went to the tip filled it so
My favourite Bearded Iris loved them
But always the old Snap Dragons to grow

Buckets old boots wheel barrows too
Jonquils and Snow drops loved my roses
Fragrent always strong in masses where ever
At times annoy delicate and touchy noses

Merigols pretty and very useful where they
Buttercups loved them throwing then around
Handfulls of wildflower seeds I'd throw about
Digging in wet newspaper for worms in the ground

My garden my home outside  loved as much as any
Little nooks to sit and read think awhile under trees
Magnolia's port wine pink and white I loved ever so
Even upon a lovely springtime night and breeze

Anything no longer useful I filled it up with Azalias
Loved blosom on the fruit trees where ever I could
If I still lived in the Snowy Valley I'd still do these things
Planting mosses in any old piece of rotting wood

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terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018