The Garden of My Mind

Within the garden of my mind,
There are many trees you’ll find.
Some bear fruit, and some do not.
Those that don’t die and rot,
And are replaced by those that do,
So those that don’t are far and few.

And even those that do not bear,
Even these trees do their share,
For in their mighty boughs up high,
There are myriad lives you’ll spy.

Darting about, fast and fleet,
Tiny hands and tiny feet,
Dancing just out of sight,
Stealing dreams for spite,
Little lives, little thieves,
Slipping fruit up their sleeves.

In the garden of my mind,
Fruits of fancy flourish,
ripen, and fall, baskets fill,
Until I discard my very will.

But the little men of the trees,
Laugh and dance amongst the leaves,
Tipping baskets, Picking fruits,
Shaking trees, uncovering roots.
So much fruit is lost this way,
But the little men continue play.

Again fancy frolics forth,
Freeing fortified finites,
Breezily blowing baser ideals,
Into the garden’s heights.

There, clouds of dreams foment and foam,
Pouring torrents of terror into the trees,
Giving fright to the little men,
Frightened fancy turns and flees.

In the nightmare of the storm,
Fear and doubt now take form,
Fruit is smashed and trees are torn,
Baskets and little men alike forlorn.
All about is laid to ill,
Until the storm spends its will.

And the little flowers of imagination,
Broken at the stem,
Laced in a garland,
And thrown away on a whim.

Storms arise and storms dispel,
Some trees stand and others fell,
And in their place new trees arise,
A dozen sprout for each that dies.

Within the garden of my mind,
There are many trees you’ll find.
Some are old and some are new,
Some are dead and some are true.
But old dead trees come to ground,
And rot away till naught is found.

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