Empty Garden

As the sun goes down;
my loneliness grows.
In my apathy, I drown;
to dust, returns my rose.

In my empty garden;
nothing beautiful grows.
Dirt is the only pardon;
not even water flows.

It is barren and lifeless;
not even the flies visit.
In this misery, is bliss;
as, I alone, I sit.

This garden knows no love;
only sacrifice lives here.
No promises from above;
only pain and despair.

So, as one, I sit;
bitterly, the wind blows.
All I feel is the grit;
and suffering is all that grows.