The Friendship Garden
The Friendship Garden
Is dead.
Lofty copper words upon a
Pedestal of weeds.
Promises and hollow words, caresses, loyalty, and love
Hold hands and proudly look upon
The child that they produced.
Acid
Venom
Composted death.
The stench of deadwormsandratsandbugsandflesh
Numbly exhuming plumes, they retch
Out
Blood and
Chunks of
Mud and
Muck.
Rotting stumps choking on lacerations of brittle floss vines
Violet babies, tender, timidly brilliant, peep their blinking heads
Gasping
Raggedly
For air.
Before insentient weeds toss over and voraciously engulf.
Ragwort consummating Gaea’s misery
Fiducial roots sprawled out unhurriedly
Hemlock at their hairy ends
Jabbing, penetrating the caverns in the dirt—
Necrophilia—by the dead.
Half-eaten apple molted into ash
Its tree has withered, black and sagging
The leaves capitulated, composted, stank
And,
Brown and molded black,
They whimpered to the ground
To die.
Engorged by slumping weeds,
The writhing smell of decaying dandelions
Absorbs the buzzing, humid air.
The graves are full
So the bodies of the Friendship Garden
Spittle on top of each other,
Pile Up
And Die
At the feet of the pedestal.
The Friendship Garden
Is dead.