Plucking Petals in a Garden of Misgivings
Love is a garden.
But not every bloom is beautiful.
Late last night my sweetheart sowed
a sinister seed from far away; somewhere
she wasn't supposed to be.
Fertilized by her slurred-filled call,
the gut-gnashing phrase he's just a friend,
and nourished further by the sight of her driveway -
empty at six a.m. this morning -
the seed has blossomed thoughts of the worst,
their vine-like stems strangling my sanity,
the endless doubts like petals of paranoia.
Pluck!
She's cheating!
Pluck!
She's not.
Pluck!
I know she's cheating!
Pluck!
Everything is fine.
Pluck!
Pluck!
Pluck!
Pluck!
So go the sounds of that prelude the fall -
the forthcoming of a killing freeze.