Garden

The garden of my mind, made up of scrounged shadows, watered by time, and anticipation, where I used to go to sit, alone, amongt the trees woven from thoughts, and sit on benches of dreams, I used to pick the grass, and tear it apart slowly, getting the scent of life and rot, Now the garden made of shadows, lies parched, a place I do not go, I do not see the beauty, I sit on the floor, husks of what I once knew, smaller than I remember, but still there, calling to me, abandoned by itself, ther is no grass anymore.