At the centre of my heart lies a great garden
but that's not where I live.
Down at the bottom I sit 
on a garden chair,
in a dusty cabbin, 
hiding away.
Secretly hoping that 
if I ignore them long enough
the overgrown vines wont reach my lungs.
With each breath they grow closer, 
announcing to anyone who'll listen
a truth none but the hopeless want to know:
About a dry garden that will never be watered
and a soil that one day
will never nurture life again.

19.04.22