david lessard (september fourteenth, nineteen forty-one / gardner, massachusetts)

There are no roses in this garden blooming,
Their stalks have all withered and died;
They died the day that you left me,
and the feelings I had deep inside.

There are no flowers in this garden growing,
They're dead from lack of concern;
Your gone and there's nothing between us,
and I've literally no place to turn.

There are no roses in this garden blooming,
Their fragrance has all passed away;
Their beauty is no longer present,
You took it with you that day.

When the garden is not tended, it dies,
And the plants, not noticed, fade from view;
You'd never suspect that a garden was here,
It once was green and glowing;
Now it's color's blue.