Eternal Garden

Aleta Debolt

How deceitful it is

This vast expanse of emerald illusion

Reaching lushly across the earth, Strangely without bud or blossom.

How vacant it is

A great castle in the dampness

Fashioned out of Desolation’s soil, A home to the rotting and the silent.

How adorned it is

With its hearth of twisted irony

The pretentious blossoms of the living, Left to wither among the dead.

And it is peculiar

This garden of endless harvest shuttered dorm dark looseleaf and stapled paper strewn on carpet crumbs and desk where i stay up dead eyed clutching caffeine, watching halftime under my elbow, a sticky note says pump out 3 papers and a poem instead take a love song suck tinney macbook treble into garageband through a greasy ipad slow it down until her voice drops to a robot’s birth agonies drown it in process echo, chorus, reverb then slap a beat on it and ride out the vibe until 3 in the morning.

Sown with the decaying seeds of grief, Plentiful in the absence it creates.