A Garden for the Meticulous,
the weirdos who like their things
stacked one by one,
numbered and labeled,
cleaned, bleached, steamed, folded
all in the right, proper places.
I have waited centuries for the flowers
to bloom in accordance to your desires.
To fancy a beast, a garden,
sedulously and scrupulously bred
for your peace of mind.
A twisted joinery through your mind,
an untamed field mowed down
with sharp, gleaming blades
stripped of originality and soul,
I can only watch from my perch–
a ragged landscape of
mountains poking their pointy heads,
wildflowers scattered across the blue-grass
in a rare, unconcealed abundance,
and the sunlight,
pure and unadulutedred,
forever stalwart from its mighty perch,
gazing upon my form with mock pride.
Whom shall pity whom
When then world crumbles in to dust?
Will you sweep the debris
until your fingers bleed?
Will the fragile walls of your mind
strengthen with your resolve,
or will you give into the whispers:
one, two three,
I like my things stacked in odds,
I like my things folded in evens,
dust is my enemy and bleach is my friend,
will the world stay still for once,
so I can finish cleaning?