Tristan Robert Lange

The Withered Garden

I wish there was life
In this withered garden;
The flowers and hedges
No longer lay in bloom.

What fruit has fallen
Lies half eaten—dying—
Rotten are those succulent
Savory fruits once enjoyed.

Seedless and ever barren,
It is forever winter here.
The once sacred garden
Is now profane and exposed.

No more is it my sanctuary,
It lies useless and ruined.
Its warmth is now the frigid
Cold agony of a tomb.