Deaths Garden On A Hill Poem by AnnaLeigh Jones

Up the hill, to the gate of the garden,
Do I silently crawl.
My solitude of secrets and memories,
Vines growing up the wall.

My secret garden- and yes, it is mine-
Awaits me each coming day.
Inside my garden, I'm free to dance,
To sing, to love, to pray.

But one day the roses all turned black.
The vines still crept along.
One day the trees, they all turned grey
And fell where they once stood strong.

Somehow the ropes- the vines- stayed alive,
And they are living still.
The vines are the shackles pulling me back
To deaths vineyard on a hill.

'Here is the place where I used to sing.'
My thoughts remind my soul.
'Here is the place where I used to dance,
But now the air is cold.'

Each time I am forced back onto the hill
I wear a coal black dress.
I am still mourning my dead hiding place,
Though the vines will never rest.

If anyone tries to follow me here
Their heart will, at once, be stilled.
I caution you, please don't try to find me
In deaths garden on a hill.