Selfish Garden

The flowers in my mind are growing just fine.

Lots of minerals in the sands of time.

All these gardens I meticulously tended to are mine.

I have blood-red roses and sunburst yellow dandelions.

Welkin-blue hydrangeas in erratic lines.

Emerald-green chrysanthemums that shine.

Resplendency in the negative spaces,

endeavouring to conceal the tenebrosity in obscure places.

Call me a selfish gardener or a recollection farmer.

I water these gardens with tears of lost dreams.

I sing to the flowers with my mute screams.

but all my visitors will ever optically discern,

is my garden of unparalleled beauty.

Stuart Johns