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Literature Text
I think I was one of the green children. Buried in me is a garden.
I think I’m growing from the outside in.
Visitors reach out to touch me, and
my blossoms are wilting
branches drooping from the weight of all the things that I can’t take
I close the gate against their onslaughts, but they still come in.
I think I’m growing from the outside in.
Visitors reach out to touch me, and
my blossoms are wilting
branches drooping from the weight of all the things that I can’t take
I close the gate against their onslaughts, but they still come in.
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For the Literature Roadtrip Contest - imaginative-lioness.
© Rosemary Gallaher 2014
Thanks for reading! 
© 2014 - 2024 bonfirelights
Comments12
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this is lovely, and so well written 