​Soul Garden

The body is a house that holds a soul
but it’s the yard
that reveals the product or the problem.
 
The plot of my soulmate,
the father of my children,
is a graveyard.

Lurking just beneath the surface
zombies rot
and skeletons rattle.

My beloved prefers my yard.
We grow flowers:
forget-me-not and bleeding heart.

Our children enjoyed fine hours
in my garden,
but are now cultivating their own greenery.

The lurking not-quite-dead things
are restless.
They won’t stay put

though vicious Cerberus
stands guard at
the gates of hell.

Creepy devil’s tail
threads a path
from the cemetery.

Bones and carcasses
puncture joy
with misery and pain.

Wild witch,
with hat askew,
combats the threat.

The ghouls are back in their boxes
for now.
But time runs out.