The Birds, The Bees, The Fire, The Solitary

he often walks in the garden of broken dreams
trying to patch up all of its broken seams
waters down what he was not able to grow
hoping for the next season to harvest what's sowed.

and the bees and birds will hum their little tunes
drift towards every flower with delicious perfumes
and the critters will eat what they can find
of every budding fruit, into the sweet flesh under the rind

this solitary man won't speak on any behalf
he will do what he can to make the birds laugh
he will makes his pants soiled with fresh earth
that often times serves as a place for renewed birth

he often takes a seat by the kindling fire
watching the flames burst which cease to tire
and the man will keep adding fresh pieces of wood
to keep feeling its warmth as he should

and the ashes and the smoke will rise to its last dance
with its wiry forms as performing a certain trance
they will dissipate in the air, and put out is the desire
that once was sought out of this friendly pyre

this solitary man wishes he had owned
what he was able to give to others than his home
he will sense the feeling of emptiness inside
to fill the next day with new things replacing what had died

and the birds and the bees with continue with their tunes
from the times of fresh mornings to closing afternoons
the solitary man will shut the garden's gate
to come back to his home where the animals and fire await.

 

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