sitting in the garden
with ragged nails
and skinned knees
(uneven and bruised)
dirty and shaking
as these hands
struggle
to paint the dandelions
harsh and yellow
malignant and wild
like the weed
aching to change
in to roses
fragrant and sweet
red
and soft
clean and beautiful
their scent tainting the breeze
like music
and this paintbrush
tattered and broken
frantically
straining
ever vigilant
to chase the bright
telltale yellows
away
because
orange
still isn't red
and a moth
is certainly
no butterfly
and these flowers
are fading
failing
in comparason
to the walls outside
this secret psuedo garden
of dying dreams
and lamentations
and the spiders
crawl
through tangled hair
venturing through vacant eye sockets
I
am well aware
I am never destined
to be a rose
or a butterfly
just
the much feared
arachnid
crawling through the vacant
skeletal
framework
of something
that
once held so much promise
now simply one
married into
silt and dust
the dandelion
choking the lillies
corroding the stone
the awkward
silence
in the livelihood
that has been deprived
by selfish roots
the irony
on the lips
of those
trying to be
roses
and butterflies
the weed
longing for the lillies
the moth
yearning for the monarch
the silence
of what was
or should have been
the sad wellwishes
the rusted pennies
in the water
[wishing they loved us, wishing to be lilies, or butterflies, or roses]
instead
resigned
to accept
the genetic metamorphasis
that wasn't meant to be
the lonely,and ragged
the spiders and sketetons
the keepers of the garden
moths
and dandelions.