We had a garden
Perhaps it was a poor thing
But to me it was as wondrous as Babylon.
It was ours
Watered with our blood.
You trampled it and cut down all the best of the flowers.
Love, that was so strong did not withstand your passage
Nor hope, nor respect, nor faith. Compassion fell, and Loyalty, and Justice, truth, and honour.
All fell at last and one remains alone, perhaps planted deeper than the rest
Perhaps just more stubborn
I think though it is more a weed than a flower.
Passion grows still.
That is all we have left of our garden.
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Author:
Jabberwocky (
Offline) - Published: May 28th, 2017 03:45
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 39
- Users favorite of this poem: mocuisle
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Comments2
I, too, have had a couple of gardens trampled, Jabberwocky. it is no fun, but an important life lesson. From mine we were able to salvage friendship, so not a total loss. Love your poem!
Thanks Louis
Not sure anything is salvageable for me.
Just trying not to let bitterness grow. Not sure what to do with the "passion".
A weed is any flower in the wrong place, that last flower is meaningful to you so cannot be a weed. Good write.
I was thinking weeds are unwanted, unplanned, but robust and persistent. They take over if your not carefull.
Thanks for your comment 🙂
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