Not a Metaphor
Take me to the dying garden
For I have never left
The empty rows of thorns with roses
That pricked and caused my death
The fruitless vines that climbed above me
And wrapped around my chest
The dead dandelions I blew so hard,
But wishes are useless.
Keep me in the dying garden
For I could never leave
The weightless arms you put around me
That claimed to set me free
The tasteless slow strength of your bottom-lipped last kiss
Most depressing ecstasy,
And the dangerous temptation of another, your neck,
That I could not concede.
Visit me in the dying garden.
I am buried in it.
Beneath the ground you walk on
Where the drumming rains persist
Next to the flattened blades of grass
That fawned at your neglect
Below the lone living flower,
So I will not forget.
- Laura Ann Tramontana
