The garden is full of beauty yet there are weeds
Yellows and purples scattered across its bed.
How will it flourish what will grow from the many seeds?
The colours quarrel faintly and there are clipped heads.
There is soil toiled and dug and from the bed the path leads.
Littered with dead flowers and saplings, rarely can we tread.
This bed has more than a green thumb in its list of needs.
The poison ivy clambers from the tongue, then it doth spread.
The flowers thronged and then the garden shines and misleads.
The petals don't scatter on the wind they rattle and shred.
Will this garden cease to have life or will the dedication proceed?
If we were to glance, we wouldn't realise this garden is dead.
No one would have realised the love that precedes.
As now this garden is begging to reseed.