Face The Music Poem by Paul Brookes

Stepping back, surveying the island
I made them from mud, lakes from puddles,
how I loved creating them, these little worlds,
you my brother, you trod on them, you were fond of destruction
but I built them again and you the destroyer crushed them under you plimsoll encased feet.

death, you, said was scrumptious, you would eat every bite;
watching from the corner.
you loved death, pinning butterflies to card.
I made gardens and tended the earth, my butterflies sipped nectar.
you laughed, what's the point, you said, where's the excitement.

that's the point I thought, the excitement's watching things grow
come into season and shed seeds and die
but then in the Spring rebirth, rising again the cycle of life.

dead men don't reanimate, I said.
so you stomped on my garden in temper but......
and here's the point, nature recovered herself,
no matter what, love's like that too
you never learned to love and that is why you are alone.

me, I still have love and my garden,
all you have is death and the empty ashes of your own destruction.