May 29 2009
Lady Gardener,
Her Maples burn red.
She stands tall above
The waste of Mainstream Commotion, America – “The Great.”
Chilled is thy Lady’s composure
But her arms are open from snow to sea.
She welcomes all to sit
By the fire of her heart –
Ontario the flame, Toronto the ember.
Lady Gardener,
Still as her Maple,
Her branches stretched out
To beckon me home.
May 29 2009
To whom the barren willow weeps,
Her branches downcast, defeated, and mournful.
Whilst she, with her matted red curls webbed with the housing of spiders,
Callused skin dispelling her enemies, cries out to her willow – mournful.
Yet the circus clown, clad in the brightest of colors,
Paints on a mask of “I’m happy,” “I’m sad,” “I’m crying” but disregards the vanish of, “I’m mournful.”
To the sparrows calling out to it mate with despair so great
Only one sound travels on the stale autumn wind: mournful.
Meet no end, for the beginning’s awoken to bright gray catastrophe and dull yellow trivialities – Wake to a morning of mourning.
And I, with no means of oxygen,
Feasting on the crust of bones, do not yet feel mournful.
