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Garden of the Harp
Picking pumpkins from your garden, all wild eyed and booted up. Mud up to my knees searching for the right shade.
Evading all crows that appose the path, pulling all masks from the scare crow to bonus the efforts.
Feverously scrambling through the roots, rushing a tradition in full. Pulling strings, too strained the strings snap and the process has been for not.
But for not it might be better, for the effort should originate from the heart. Apart from the physical world the mind stays its hand but suffers none the less.
Blessed or not, the emotions flash flood the nerves into shock. Recovering all words worth saving without spelling the blood, without spilling a drop.
