The iron gates stand before me,
Guarding the bodies within.
I enter in this garden of my love.
The rows are dull and quiet.
No color, no life.
My dreams no longer bloom.
My hopes no longer grow.
Flowers of my life are dead and gone.
I take the lily of my heart into my hand.
My fingertips brush the wilted petal,
It turns to dust.
It's body crumbles in my grasp,
Carried away with the wind.
I look around me.
Dust and death surround me.
Empty and dead,
There and gone.
I walk among the rows.
The smell of a decayed life filling the air.
A garden of forgotten ideas and plans.
All dead, all gone.
My dead garden.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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2 comments:
Only the dead can die, not the living. That which is alive in you is immortal.
In reality there is only the source, dark in itself, making everything shine. Unperceived, it causes perception. Unfelt, it causes feeling. Unthinkable, it causes thought. Non-being, it gives birth to being. It is the immovable background of motion. Once you are there, you are at home everywhere.
-Nisargadatta Mahraj
I like this poem even more than Sea. Very visual...I get the feeling of one feeling hopeless and lost. Or, perhaps, of being alive amongst such dead, weighted expectations. A garden of failures, false hopes and promises....Penny
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