The Executioners Garden

the executioners garden  strangepainting

The executioner keeps his garden in the sun in the shade in the midnight moonlight he tends to his spaces away from the chanting and violent excitement of the crowds here the roses bloom so huge and dark velvety and their fragrance is so strong that you stagger for a moment the spiky plants raise their arms to catch at you while you pause at the faint sound of moaning of bitter weeping just the wind….you hope The executioner brings bits of his work home now and then his trophies are what nurture this garden he stands back sweaty from his labor and casts a satisfied eye over the symmetry and ferocious beauty in this his hidden garden

*artwork by strangepainting*


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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