Garden of Live Flowers

I was given articulation
but denied
accompanying aim.

Untitled wanderer
gifted control of
my fate
provided I did
not fall prey to the
wastelands I
adored.

I was handed a
compass but
not its magnetism,

a sky with its
North star filled in

a voice that
colours outside the
lines

trying to find old
pictures

others clearly want
to hide away.

I possess flames but not the oxygen to sustain them,
sticks and stones but no rock slides to train them in
the art of
throwing down.

Yet I was
bequeathed both
holes in the earth and
shovel
to bury them
under gardens and
honeysuckles;

something beautiful to watch grow while
stone structures crumble
all around.

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