the leaves of my garden,
burned and withered in the flames,
their ashes help make fertile,
the roots and soil that remains,
and name dare not spoken,
echoes in my head,
a life held so high,
the preamble to my dread,
still this half of the painting,
the side left in the dark,
is still waiting to be awoken,
is still waiting for his spark,
yes i can see it's future,
a land of grandeur and peace,
but his garden is still lifeless,
the beauty still lying underneath,
there's no one here to till it,
i can't see doing it alone,
but without this lovely garden,
this house can never be a home,
a name dare not spoken,
yes i remember it well,
and i feel that name shaking,
the very roots left of this shell.
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