I stand here on a lifeless patch of dirt and dead,
A failed garden of hope.
Not a vine nor a sprout popping
From the ground
On which I now stand.
Like my life,
This gross brown patch
Has nothing going for itself,
Nothing to offer people.
I kick about the dirt and dust,
Standing in this brown cloud of dirty.
Coughing and sneezing from allergies,
Wondering how I failed,
Why do I always fail
At bringing life where it is needed;
At bringing a certain flare
Or a hint of beauty
To an otherwise dead place?
A deadened house has killed off
A few violets and a rose tree,
And I am no gardener.