The Gardener

Never will I know the warmth of your skin,
by the coldness of your heart I am haunted.
Planted is the seed in the blood of kin,
by this garden of pain I am daunted.

The selfish destruction that you have sown,
like a noxious weed it thrives.
Through many generations it has grown,
infesting such innocent lives.

Happiness choked by the bitter vines,
the children left to weep.
It does not rest when no light shines,
it blossoms in our sleep.

The roots still feast on memories and fear,
that burn from your home in hell.
Your son often visits with a rum filled tear,
it’s a place I know too well.

It is mine to tend this garden you gave,
on my knees I pull at the weeds.
I resist the urge to spit on this grave,
but instead I plant new seeds.

Troy White ©2010

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