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?
WolfCast Home Page – Listen, follow, subscribe
Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
— Go back home and read MORE by Wolf Inwool
— Visit the archive
I welcome feedback at my inbox
