In Gardens Wilted

some lines
were never meant for you,
the tears behind that ink had dried on
shoulders
long since mildewed,
in gardens wilted far beyond your
angelic view,
in some melancholy corner
where my mind finds itself
occasionally derailed.
don't despair, don't long for the
answers to this disorder,
just be the stone to weather the storm,
and not the eye praying for calm-
though all you may know of the rose
is her thorn!