The Walled Garden
The walls of silence
Are already beginning to rise.
Once raised,
They are impenetrable.
Shouts into the void
Bear no fruit but
A raspy voice.
Wondering if anyone hears—
Knowing that really,
Only one matters.
But I cannot stop
Thinking about the rest.
Lack of compassion,
Instead; bitter quiet
Punctuated by shells of hate
Launched from mortars of disdain.
Shots intended
Not to kill,
But to slowly
Disintegrate joy and brilliance.
A cold and complete death
In the quiet, sterile garden.
An end fitting
Of the wicked.
I am afraid.
Afraid to do anything.
To write, or draw.
Afraid of how it will
Be interpreted.
How can such a fragile existence
Be accepted?
Thanks for reading and sharing my beautiful lie.
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