You carry a basket of flowers with dead roses in your hair.

You plant them with hope of a newborn garden; oh to bloom despite the clouds in the sky.

Someone once told you; just water them, kiss them and remind them of who they are.

You've tried that already. So you fight to protect them until they stop whimpering at night.

You're as sweet as honey. It's a shame you only feel the weights attached to your heels.

Summer comes and summer goes & your garden remain lifeless.

Winter comes and blinds us all with white hope, maybe in the spring you say.

Maybe in the spring, you pray.

Maybe in the spring, she says, will we see some pink petals again.

So spring comes and we find you humming in your garden as nightmares come to steal the color from your flowers once more.

Not in my garden, you say.

So there you remain, dirt in your fingernails with dead flowers in your hair, relentlessly weeding until you see a sign of life in your little garden again.