The Garden Of Life Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

A blue-grey night hangs oddly out of place
where frozen electric storms
join the memory of uncloaked ambition.
Winter calls and the tiny people drift
from their beckoning hovels
in preparation for erotic adventures.
Silver air bonds the winds of temptation
which controls the shadow white bones.
Tiny fingers reach out trembling hands
to grasp the last of the hot water as
it drips from an out of date mind.
Naked, the situation develops with the
same intensity that it would finally end.

And they called out in terror, in revulsion
as the jumping vines of ultimate distance
wrapped tangled chains around their necks.

Cold dark heat waves drifted casually
across the lives of the people so small.
Drowning fate in caskets of puss melted
carefully around the eyes of the persecuted.
Tiny legs chained in mindless droning of
factory dragons demanding retribution
for every quota that was never to be met.

And they whined about the lazy flowers
that would not grow despite the fertilizer
dropped harshly onto the garden of life.