The garden

[peter danielsen]

Not even the garden with its glowing leaves
gently placed on the wet lawn
can help you out of the butterfly net
of your sickening dejection

You are whirled around in the rain
closer and closer to the outskirts of the cemetery
with puke hanging from the corner of your mouth
and a throbbing anxiety in the temple

Not even the repeating prayer of the heart
lifts you out of the song of mystery
quickly slipping towards the end

In the dark abyss God granted your soul
you see increasingly worse visions
of the hideous creeping things
horror is made of

A wound that never heals is open for demons

And now the old tired church bell swings in the damp tower
and soon the rusty sound of death
will pour over the dike of your garden
with you once again
flung on the ground
the wings crumpled up and the spine broken
in the mud which became the home of your timid psyche