The Garden

Come to the garden,
where the butterflies are calling your name.
The stream glides through the valley of your heart,
holding a soul that it delivers to your door.
Do you have the key to that garden,
which is full of secrets?

The ink is still wet,
the pen still palpable,
and your fruit is ripe with feeling,
fit for plucking.

Do you dare to fit that rare and glorious key into the lock,
that you fashioned from your traumas,
which has plagued both a nightmare
and a dream?

Do you have the courage to twist that fated piece of metal,
warped and shaped in the forge of your mind?

And if you do, could you walk through the garden,
which must be tendered to, lovingly.

Dare and the garden may flourish,
the flowers will bloom,
petals unfurling and stretched to the sun.
The river will rush, full
of water rather than mud that has cracked.

Or the garden may wither and die.

So, do you wish to come to the garden?

Here, the choice is none but your own.