Garden of hell

Garden of hell

His vortex mind whirled around the boundary of the conscious and unconscious; knowing and unknowing. 

He could hear the high pitched screams. 

The innocent garden becomes an anguished torture chamber. The perimeter hedge; the imprisoner and the imprisoned, rooted to the ground, with interlocking arms of barbarous barbs, was impervious to penetration. And yet in turn, it awaited the Promethean torture and containment of the ruthlessly disciplinarian gardener. 

In the sun hazy morning, the shear blades glistened as they flashed together in searing multiple amputations. The garden screamed in sympathy as sap bled from the wounds of a hundred lost buds. This was Hawthorn Hell. The futile repetition of expansionary attempts into forbidden space was the garden’s job description and epitaph. 

He woke up, eyeballs like marbles, thin eye scanning the dazzle of early morning sunshine diffused through unlined cotton and his enmeshed eyelashes. He heard the rhythmic noise of an engine running, the sound slowly moving from one place to another. He stumbled to the window, and parted the curtains. 

He watched the lawnmower go by, spewing out an arc of fresh mown grass. The clipped pieces fell sacrificially to earth. Oh, the cannibal lawn; to feed and grow again off the cut shards of its brethren. 

Oh, such a cruel containment of life; regeneration with limitations. 

There was a knock at the door. Someone was calling in the living layer of life. He blocked his ears. 

“Come back tomorrow,” he cried, “I don’t live today”. 

He sat staring out the window, steeped in his anchored melancholia.

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