I water my cliché garden
with the tears of dead poets
I keep in my secret cupboard,
next to the Hallmark cards.
And on a fine night it’s quite a sight,
standing under the full, spring moon,
to behold the organic metaphors
pushing their way up through the earth.
I have a row of hearts and souls and love
and another of candle light and moonbeams,
and finally the row of vile vials
full of all manner of nastiness
all sprouting from dirt as black as sin,
This is for day 11 of April, Poem a Day. But I'm linking it nowhere, because it's kind of stinky.