The Garden

I look at my dreadful garden such sight so solemn...
Whereon leaves are falling declaring it's Autumn.
I sit by the fountain, on a wooden chair,
And feel the breeze while I think of despair.

Opening my palm, I raise my hand.
Where the twirling leaves decide to land.
Reminding me of a touch, more soft and sweet,
When thy lips and mine used to meet.

If I shall ever gain another chance...
I'll ask God for one last glance.
Then spare me not thy lovely voice,
Sing those poems of love and rejoice.

No longer can I strive and endure this strain...
I can no longer fight against this pain.
For I see thy ghost between the lamenting trees,
And I feel thy scent with the morning breeze.

I gather the leaves and move the chair aside,
And on the ground I lay where I am meant to reside.
I look around but all that I see,
Is fallen branches surrounding me.

The dying flowers are pitying I,
The forlorn creature is about to die.
A black cloud of crows began to eagerly squeak,
Waiting for the last dropp of my soul to finally leak.

I have no reason left to remain...
If my flesh would fill their hunger, I will not be in vain.
Farwell my garden of sorrow, I will succumb to fate...
And with my death I shall forever seal thy Gate.

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