The Garden

A beginning found in somber days
where sun beams down
but finds no play
and greens and grasses curb the bend
and grow before what doesn't end.
A jungle in a tamed, still world
beholds the truth and hides the thorns.
Behold the lasting living lust
and grapevines tangled in the rough,
for here we find our hero's tale
and here we end what's lost and stale.
Here we grow and witness rise
and take it down and break the ice.
But let's return to setting scene
for in beginnings that's what's deemed
as most germane and fit to spell.
It's mostly green and lacks no smell.
It sends a pungent froth from out
of never mowed and never cut
and never trimmed or primped or preened.
It's merely overgrown and seen.
It grows and races up and down
and towards the windows,
towards the ground.
It's roses twist and sing in pain
of tortuous touch from walkways,vain.
And here our hero walks a path,
he jumps from window,
cuts with wrath.
He climbs the gutter to police
this forest held
in suburb-relief.
He sends a signal
to the foes,
who are most innocent, one should know.
He hacks and bruises beauteous marks
and looks for something
to set a-spark.
He blights the blighters,
clips the thorns,
and hurries through
with voracious yearn.
The climax holds here
cue the horns!
Cue the music!
Lighting!
Stones?
The end and fall comes down at last.
He lacked the courage,
lacked the wrath.
He finds his sheers and clippers cut
with rocks that bend
and air that rusts.
He feels the pelting at his back
while magic forest gets him sacked.
And so our brave young hero climbs
and enters now where he spent time.
Our gardener fellow finds retreat
and looks below
at growing scene,
for at the end the jungle won
and mystic growth held out it's gun.
At the finish of the tale
hero watched
as house was scaled;
as roses grew
and bit and snapped;
as grapevines twisted,
filled the gaps;
as trees surrounded,
hedges poked,
and beauty marked its furtive home.