I

“Perhaps the fragrance,
Of the dainty roses
On the rose bush,
In the garden on the corner,
Will serve to elevate,
My despondent spirit”,
I think, as I walk
Around the block.

On another day,
I sit on a wooden bench,
Under a very benevolent maple,
Its gorgeously decadent foliage,
Casting a ripple of sunshine,
On my dark coat sleeve,
And I grasp at the warmth
From the autumn sun,
Hoping it will sink deep
Drenching my weary soul.

I decide then,
That the kitchen garden
Of a tiny cottage,
Sat amidst the verdant green
On a lonely mountain,
Would be the perfect antidote
To this treacherous poison,
That runs deep within,
My aging veins.

II

No fragrant scent,
Nor pretty scene,
Nor indeed,
The warmth of the sun,
Could hold a candle,
To the pitch black,
Of this endless darkness.