Author Information
Soiled
I never did quite thank her
For the things she did.
Opening my eyes
To profound pain and pleasure.
The depths of which
Cannot be measured.
And I am sick now...
But at least
The fever comes
From thoughts
Lodged beneath
A near perfect ground.
The garden of our passion -
Dressed with roses,
Blooming fruits,
Windswept bushes,
And a solemn thorn.
That unavoidable sting...
She grabbed her things,
Walked out the gate
And left the tiny garden space.
As I fell to my hands and knees
And with soiled palms
Began to water
The trees she left behind...
