Whom will be present

Just incredible, the realization of gardens not glowing.

The seed never knowing of its growing from the planter’s sowing.

The earth’s intricate furrowing not showing.

Then furrows be carved deep into thy brow.

Tears with empty centers drip onto my scowl.

Trickle the streams, but I only hear them crying,

Breezes whispering say the wind, I bow my head within its sighing.

With mallet in hand pound ancient wooden stakes deep into the center of my heart,

The pain in my eyes would be the same as what I feel

for those never wanting to see their own blossoming art.

Never realizing the need to understand compassion and passions,

never knowing of beauty’s breed and its everlasting impressions,

fighting the divine farmer in the sacred planting of our soul's creed of ascension.

And whom then will be present at the harvest?