The Garden

We live in pictures

Painted on vases

Sold in the garden.

 

If the painter likes you, you’re painted once more,

Given another facet of porcelain to explore.

And what sort of reality will you find?

Will there be any reason or rhyme?

In your little space in time?

 

And who is the painter anyways?

Why must we exist on a vase?

Are we just porcelain dreams smeared across a madman’s canvas?

 

As the end draws near, it all becomes unmistakably clear,

You shutter, irony clad cries,

Left wondering why

You were judged, tried, and left to die

At the hand of a crafty salesman that thought he’d try

To sell your reality to a serpent in disguise.

 

© cs, 1996

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