Those Who Plant Their Seeds
Those Who Plant Their Seeds
Robert Kozak
The restless man tills his soil, eternally
preparing a garden he will never plant.
The lovers plants their lilacs in pots
side by side
at the base of their porch
where they watch them grow, everyday
while they drink their tea.
The murderer plants his ebony, planting seeds
for his core
Will only grow darker with age.
The sickly plant seeds of growth, delicate and
gentle ghost orchids,
waltzing in the wind as their
petals fall to the
Ground.
The obsessive plant blue roses,
following and stalking their objects of interest,
tucking the blossoms under their ear as they sleep.
A condolence for cruelty.
The withdrawn plant nothing,
yet the ivy grows on their walls,
further encasing these hermits
within themselves,
unable to be torn away
without leaving proof
of their past.
The dead,
grant life,
their viscera becoming soil,
their vertebrae the stalk,
their arms the branches.
I walk through their gardens, looking upon them.
And like they do me, I ignore them,
planting seeds of poppy.
So that they may blossom to gentle petals of rest,
so that I may lie among their scarlet beauty.