garden tribute

Pain flowing

Like ink through water

Down my arm like

A needling supplicant

Awake for hours

And only the words

Hold it at bay

I save my opinions of some

Walled gardens

Made of words

Some are tributes

Rendered in kindness

Others get barren, dead

Crime scenes

Which is which,

Well, it depends

On how well you

Treated the gardener

Before I picked up my tools

And began to write

But even those

Who want my scorn

Seldom get it

Because they receive instead

The gift of my blithe indifference

Not even willing to draw a sickened breath

To wish harm

Upon them.


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