DEATH Poem: The Garden, by Erick Rivers

My garden is the most beautiful in the neighborhood
Mrs. Messer’s Garden can’t even compare
With all the grey in her hair
Her roses are wilting, them scared to face God
My roses are lifted, their heads raised high telling God to praise them
Her marigolds have lost their color, brown like the leaves that fall in the sky
My marigolds shine brightly like the sun, the orange-yellow burning holes in neighbors’ eyes
Her poppies spread far apart, forming various small cliches
My poppies hundreds in number, like kids on a school trip
Her sunflowers only able to feed herself
My sunflowers feeding the neighborhood kids
Her violets pink and cute but not right
My violets a deep burning purple, their hue fit for the most noble of royals
We both bought beautiful tulips from the store
Her’s are now dead
Mine look beautiful in their stead
Mrs. Messer’s Garden doesn’t hold any deep secrets
Mine buries a few
The only thing buried in her garden are dead fruits and vegetables
My garden houses a different kind of dead
Shoe boxes of old bones are buried in my garden.
Mrs. Messer tends her garden because she’s old and almost dead
I tend my garden because I’ve had to bury so many dead.
Mrs. Messer is now dead
I’ll plant a plot of daisies for that dead
Hopefully Mrs. Messer taken some of my flowers to greet my dead.

Author: poetryfest

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