The Cliche Garden of Day 11

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,

or tar,

or coal.

This is for day 11 of April, Poem a Day.  But I'm linking it nowhere, because it's kind of stinky.