You sit there smiling in your paradise of lies, you tend that garden carefully, like a demonic cat with soul absorbing eyes.
Sneering, leering, snickering, bickering, blatantly bold, have I fallen out of favor, now that I will not do as I'm told.
Emotionless prig, heartless and cruel, so coldly content, to keep up the ruse.
Incapable of passion's fire, for you have no soul, unless of course I am yours to control.
Your garden blossoms with falsehood and pride, the blooms infested with evil bloodsucking flies, so terrifying that poisonous spiders hide.
You laugh at my logic, belittle my spirit, squeeze my heart and feelings in a ragged rusty vice, taking aim at my soul with a virulent dart, in an effort to throttle me nice.
Vex me not by presenting your garden as a venue to relax, make love, be reborn. The lies of love that spill from thin bloodless lips, are only to convey the hidden meaning of your want between my hips.
Never will I succumb to a life of your ruthless surprise, becoming ugly evasive, and soul worn, I'd sooner pick myself up by the heels and toss me over a wall into a garden of thorns.
©2003 Lloydene F. Hill