The garden deep within my heart
has long since gone to seed.
The little spot were love grew tall
is overgrown with weed.

No one to water, till the soil
and trim the stems so neat.
So many lonely years have passed
it now doth barely beat.

The pretty pots which bloomed with trust
are emptied weathered stone.
Neglected for so long a time
they sit there all alone.

Dark creeping vines of age and gloom
have covered 'oer the walls,
and shut out light that beamed
so bright on flowers large and small.

The thistles bristling thorns of woe
and nettles hurtful sting,
were planted there by broken dreams
and nights spent suffering.

And so my garden waits for one
to see how once it grew,
pull up the nasty vines and weeds
and plant true love anew.

To sprinkle my parched dried out soul
with gentle drops of rain,
and wash away the dust and sand
in which grew bitter pain.

One day someone will finally come
to weed and rake and hoe,
for her the sweetest, reddest rose
my garden then will grow.