Garden Room

I’ve hung myself in the garden room

I don’t know why- I just quite felt like it.

Maybe it was the sweet pheromones of the flowers, or the stillness of the bittersweet magnolia air, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

Now I wonder what will happen when they discover my corpse.

Swaying gently under the primroses and poppies. 

The decadent smell hiding the wrench beneath my skin.

Now I walk gently among the marsh-pillowed lands

Searching for nothing- having nothing to worry, just walking and thinking of gardening plans

I shall not worry, as my mind is flourished. The world was never this beautiful, this bright, this free. 

And I shall rest under the red roses galore, 

The silky-smooth leaves and the stems so sharp,

No wonder why these prickly flowers are a thing of art. 

While the alive mourn the loss of many, they won’t know what threw the blow for the one to be so heavy, and so lost to the point of being hollow. 

Like a dead tree fallen in a forest pitch empty.