The Garden's Secret
This is a poem of sorts inspired by, oddly enough, Pinterest. Because it is filled with both beauty and trash, inspiration and discontentment, that which is lovely sitting side by side with sin. And it’s easy to get lost in it. Guard your hearts, dear friends.
Be wary.
For the garden holds a dark secret.
Not a pit, per say, but a hole all the same, one that goes down, down, down.
One surrounded by blooms and wonder, tiny bursts of beauty and charm, things that glisten and dazzle.
‘Tis pleasant at first glance. With boarders that are safe enough, where one can wander, picking and pulling, spinning a bouquet of inspiration to be taken with.
But the ground be slick with dew, and the moss not grounded tight.
In your path to gather the lovelies, one step will slip, and you will move a little further down to find footing.
Round and round you will tread, hoping for just one more piece of beauty, one more bit that will bring a smile or sigh. Over this root, through that briar. Onward you will push, gathering and arranging, arranging and gathering.
Only none seem quite right. So you push forward, easing a little deeper, a little deeper, eyes skimming with less discernment, each step with less care in its placement. You’ll know when you find the right one, just a bit further.
Only…
When was the last you picked?
When was the last you saw something of substance, let alone beauty?
For here, ‘tis a veil of dark, and a finger of cold runs your spine to the base of your skull, which now, you sense, has grown thick with webbing and fog.
And you look before and behind you, but there are no lovelies here, only decay and thorns and a weary ache that has settled throughout your bones.
Flee!
The climb out is quick, no doubt, and you reach the gate with a sigh, relieved to be gone.
But the garden still clings, the burrs catching tight, the nettles entangled.
You will leave, still clutching your bits of beauty.
But ‘tis a great many darker things you now take with you.
For in the garden, ‘tis a dark secret.