Round the back of a house older than ourselves,
there rests an unkempt garden.
The grass shoots upwards from the earth,
tall enough to hide away the ground
and let forgotten creatures travel undetected.
The hum of the wings of bees and wasps
synchronise, drowning out all other sound,
whilst the multitude of bird songs go unrespected.
The forever growing canopy of leaves
threatens to hide the Sun and all its light
from everything dwelling below.
The arctic wind throws the branches about,
making them them snap, whip, and bite
at the whim of a bloody beaked crow.
Vines grapple with the house itself,
getting in between mortar and brick
as they slowly tear the place down.
Trampled flowers lie besides those
who stand with stems sturdy and thick,
but with petals beaten and brown.
I don't care for grass, or trees, or the everyday flower.
The sins of each don't seem worthy of my scorn.
There's only one thing in this garden I'd like to address -
the Roses weighed down by their Thorn.
