The Wicked Come

A mist enshrouded garden
Sown with faded memory
One so long forgotten
As if eyes had never seen

I can tell in the twilight
Nothing here still grows
Each vine lay shriveled
In some dark repose

Leaves curl upon themselves
As if in the instance of demise
They cringed from their destruction
With terrified surprise

Skeletal flora
Long bereft of hue
Painted now with hoarfrost
For the wanderer to view

A withered necropolis
Naught but dust for soil
And did one yearn to salvage it
The land would not reward the toil

A sudden realization dawned
I stilled on the path I tread
The garden was my heart
And it was truly dead

I sat on that broken road
Numb with epiphany
How could something die
And no one seem to see?

Once there was beauty here
Yet no one realized
And no one mourns the passing
When a secret dies

By 

Krystal Asher ©2012