There was a child
Who longed to live
Life and true love
Of which he’d give.
Dreams of sunlight
And garden trees
Bearing much fruit;
Ripening to please.
Days of innocence,
Of playful dreams,
Came to a hault
Like dried up streams.
The garden a pox,
Death it became,
Dusty and desolate,
A remorseful shame.
His house a tomb,
Cursed with decay.
The boy now a man,
Innocence betrayed.
Dust and bones,
A mortal coil,
The living dead
Becoming a foil.
Withered garden,
A decrepit tomb,
There’s no way to
Retreat to the womb.
Death-head agape,
Displayed on a shelf.
The boy’s a phantom,
Of his former self.