Gone is the garden, we are paved now

in parts no longer potential to growth,
to goodness. And the crow caws
in the corner, flesh festering into feather.

Gone is the garden, we have paved paths

over all that was precious while thinking
thoughtless, if only we’d thought less
about what we wanted and more
about what was needed. And the crow
cowers in the corner, questioning
what has become of its celebrity.

Gone is the garden and we can never
go back; the lock now lost in lyrics
too light, in the songs surrendered
from all that was soul to just sold out.

Gone is the garden, gone to graze

over another galaxy not yet grown
greedy, we are now alien to all
the earth has asked for, strangers
to the simple sand that sweeps the shore,
and stranger still to the starlight
that shines through its last breath burning.

We are the crows, cawing over concrete,
in corners, claws cracking in our chaos

and confused as to where went the worth.

All words and drawings my Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost (from my Joni Mitchell series) for a week of considering creation