Garden
The garden of my mind,
made up of scrounged shadows,
watered by time,
and anticipation,
where I used to go to sit,
alone,
amongt the trees woven from thoughts,
and sit on benches of dreams,
I used to pick the grass,
and tear it apart slowly,
getting the scent of life and rot,
Now the garden made of shadows,
lies parched,
a place I do not go,
I do not see the beauty,
I sit on the floor,
husks of what I once knew,
smaller than I remember,
but still there,
calling to me,
abandoned by itself,
ther is no grass anymore.