closet of guns..

i am the piece that poets find grotesque and plain. there was a garden here once but civil war and crusades left no part unchartered and all ruins charred. i was no piece girl i gave my all in wholes and when they left, they left no peace just these holes. i uttered i love you; and in that haze; unwavering like a solid Daniel you stayed, and your unassuming stick started sneaking around. your smile began linger in the air. these tarnished parts are the things poets find grotesque and plain and in those parts were weeds poisoned by broken promises and if you stood still long enough you could feel them clinching onto your ankles like child to nurtures chest. but the gentle assemblage of your of our mustard seed promises broke ground . taking root things began to change and shake. these hardening walls i hide behind began to crumble.