The Wicked Garden

A dead murmur thrives in the garden of poison. Thick withering blooms blister
the clumped earth. Weeds rustle along the twisting path of cold stone. She works
wildly pinching ad pruning into the late hours of the blue night. Her hands
sparkle with frost. Her frozen breath lingers. A strange grey light surrounds
her …
to be continued …
*** written 10-06-06

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