My dead garden

A silent rain drop forms in the corner of my eye,  
Stilly watering the dead garden that I’ve created around me.  

Drip,  
Drip,
Dro…

The crunchy sticks of dried up dreams,
mixed with the dead flowers of hopes long gone,
Or maybe ones that never began to bloom.
That feeling of hopelessness,
like a whale on the shore,
Gasping for air.
never knowing which breath is its last.
Then mustering up the courage for one more inhale.
then exhale.

Inhale,
Exhale.

How much longer can I sustain this for?  

I’m struggling for a breath in a world bursting with oxygen.
hanging on to a rope that seems to be tied to nothing.
Time comes back to me,
crashing in like a wave unwelcomed,
smiling as it gets swept up by the ocean,
as a tease
- it gets to go home, but I don’t.
I’m here to stay in my garden.
Not alone, but lonely.
I’m surrounded by hundreds of vast gardens,
but theirs are lush, green, and colorful.
Alive.
mine is gray, dark, and depleted.
Dead.

Why can’t my garden be colorful too?

…op

As the silent rain drop falls,
I pray that this tear brings my dead sticks to life,
And makes them blossom too.   
Adding color to the desolate,
Until my gray turns blue,
Then purple,
Then red.
Orange,
Then Yellow.
The sun will come up,
And dry my silent tear.
I’ll dance in my garden.
Not alone,
Not lonely.

This tear wasn’t the one,
My garden remains lifeless,
But I can see the drop glisten on the withered flowers.
Maybe it’s a sign of what's to come -
Or maybe it’s another dream,
Bound to become a dried out stick.
Living the rest of its life,
In my dead garden.