Catering for Despair

Your eyes are roses.
All that red blossoms and grows.
The long green stems stretch back far,
curling through the gaps in your skull
and out your nasal passages.
The thorns that stick in my hands
are long and sharp and matted
with the blood of those
that have come before.

Your teeth flash
black and green.
Your smile sickens.
I reflect on how I am
somewhat a gardener,
as I prune back the bitterness.
Your hair is a tangle of weeds
which I delicately remove,
my hands growing red and
itchy with their juices.

Your roots are thick and strong.
They stretch deep. The problem is
you’ve implanted yourself
in the shadow of a great
weeping willow on the
darker side of the garden.
Beside a wall that limits and abuses.

You need to be brought out
into the sun of summer days,
I intend to relocate you to a
nice spot, beside the chrysanthemums
and my well kept lawn,
in the warmer part of the
garden and my heart.

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