by Nick Gisburne
The garden was a symptom of his rage,
A deep disdain for any living thing.
He cut and slashed and killed it to assuage
The vitriol to which his core must cling.
But life, a green machine, kept coming back.
The shoots, at first so delicate, grew strong.
Relentless, each malevolent attack
Persuaded him their leaves did not belong.
The sun, his bitter enemy, bore down
To burn his body, while it fed his foe,
And even when he purged it, baked and brown,
Another day would dawn, and it would grow.
They found him there, defeated, on his knees,
With seeds and spores delivered by the breeze.
