i think i found the secret
to your dying bark.
the water beneath the soil
was poisoned by careless hands.
the gardener despised his flora,
for it didn't grow in the way he wanted it to.
why did he have a garden if he didn't want to nurture it, then?
i wish i could go back in time
to shield you from the pesticide that spilled from his mouth.
maybe your sickness would wash away
with the stream.
still, you can't reverse the pain you've poured upon me.
these withering leaves are proof.
it explains the decay, but it doesn't excuse it.
your thorns have ripped me open,
and gods, i'm afraid
for you and me.
all i can hope is for the sun to shine on your roots
and heal the wounds from the gardener's shears.