(Anthony Albanese, you don’t take advantage of my grief like you always have, I’ll fuck you!)
I feel like an eternal garden
that each moment is having its flowers squished
one by one, by an evil invader
The pain is percolating through the veins, through the nerves
Who can tell that the gardener is himself, the garden?
The bushes falling over one another, the hedgerow is exhuming
its own roots, its own fences, defences. We are all in a land
where no one wants to acknowledge that the gardener
is sinking slowly into the earth, as if he can no longer
stand up to the force of fraud, the treason of torture. This gardener,
who left no stone unturned to become his creation, itself.
Everyone is in denial, have always been. No one believes the gardener!
He is reluctant to cry, but finds no tears even to die
in the helplessness due to those who find it convenient
to have faith in the villain, and to discount the victim
Even the most favourite flower, the opus of his love!
She prefers hypocrisy, refuses to tell the world the truth!
The gardener is fraught to be torn in disparateness of wisdom –
to continue to tend his garden, or to blow himself apart
There is too much pain in his heart
His soil is parched, though his soul is wet with grief
Can he take this to its resolution or will he wither in the futility
against the overwhelming conspiracy of those who capitalise
on his grief, because they are leveraged by the beguiler?!
montes-musings.blog 