POETRY // Something Dead in the Garden...

There is

something dead in the garden.

It is buried beneath the roses, hidden underneath

thorns and bloody petals,

this weak and withered thing, sun streaked bones sinking 

deep,

deep,

deeper

into the soft earth.

But a hand!

A hand reaches out, tangled with gnarled roots and grasping;

a voice calls out, some terrible thing come back to life.

There is

something dead in the garden,

rose covered, entangled with thorns,

something

calls to me...