the garden

From the inside out

I was minding my own world and colliding it with yours

Your garden, empty a soulless mess,

My shadow laying on the garden path

Cracked with stones and muck

Every time I looked

You’d shrug “I will get round to it”

And the soil dug up and left about

Seemed like a tiring task and back then you wasn’t concerned if I wore a mask

As we sat.

And the garden, now distant now

I foolishly began to make it my own vision in my head,

I imagined where all the flowers could go

It seemed like a magnificent picture

One that I could still recall if I tried hard enough

And I looked to the other side and again you shrugged and smiled

“ I will get round to it”

Though I must admit

It was never the garden that was really an issue or anything

It was the pit of my stomach telling me

Each day to not be afraid of the disappointment coming

From you

And still you called me naive but as I sat in the breeze I listened to the trees

And believed

“You’d get round to it”


And from the inside out

In my mind without a doubt

I knew you would let me down

But I still wanted to hang around

Now I see that probably wasn’t the best for me but, in return

I was able to sit and observe, be half inside your world


That all the things you must have needed to get round to doing, probably won’t ever be done.

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