The garden was over grown,
after so long,
of it being alone.
Beauty choked by weeds,
left by the gardener,
who had her needs.
the only sign of her was the spade,
infected with rust and rooted,
in the place where it stayed.
the garden like the women in disrepair,
no one ever sees them,
nobody seems to care
the garden gates are closed,
a gnarled rose bush adorns,
no one dares enter,
afraid of her thorns.
YOU ARE READING
my poems
PoetryEach of my poems are their own entity, shaded in different hues and personalities. They are empathetic with many universal themes.
