Thirteen

was your garden like this

with sweet pead walks and softly scented air coaxed to perfection but pale in comparison to you was your hair like mine free flowing as you walked arms extended to parallel the sky face held up to drink in its blueness were you smiling when they came upon you unawares stealing your solitude in their lecherous distinction pharasitic robes and stooped decay eager eyes and sick sweet breath even to their shriveled distortion your light was discernable in opposition maddening can you forgive their attempt to dirty what you attempted to clean When God himself held their lives forfeit in the words of a little boy O Susanna my Apocryphal maiden O don’t you cry for me