At the centre of my heart lies a great garden

but that's not where I live.

Down at the bottom I sit

on a garden chair,

in a dusty cabbin,

hiding away.

Secretly hoping that

if I ignore them long enough

the overgrown vines wont reach my lungs.

With each breath they grow closer,

announcing to anyone who'll listen

a truth none but the hopeless want to know:

About a dry garden that will never be watered

and a soil that one day

will never nurture life again.

19.04.22