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A Garden

I have seen the living dead
and walked among them in their apathy.
The sordid words and actions they defile each other with
char my fragile heart.
The rapists and sadists picked it to ruin like a pomegranate and ate the pulp.
I have seen and felt the brunt of this evil world
but I choose to live on anyway.
If I could be my own garden somehow
with lupine stained fingers
I would write to you
my very soul that seems to pull itself up.
The seeds from falling debris
fall and sprout seemlessly.
My heart grows again much stronger still,
it might blossom.
Pull me out of this mud and I will show you.
Am I a flower in these weeds?
Am I a weed among roses?
I don't know.
Either way I must grow.
I have lost my body to torture,
I have lost the connection between it and I.
I bury this corpse of myself,
may a tree grow.
A strong Oak
ancient, towering,
so wise and comforting.
A connection with all my limbs and thoughts
and to sink right in my skin.
The rapists and sadists have tore my body to mess with bitter teeth
but I do not cower so easily.
Lord and Lady, take my despair, my humiliation and throw it down the canyon.
If I could be my own garden somehow
with marigold stained fingers
I would write to you
my very soul that rises up and breathes.
PatchworkOwl PatchworkOwl 22-25, F Oct 15, 2012

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