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In a choked and dying garden of weeds,
Stoops a man, cold hunger his dire need.

A gift, a curse.
Good turns, to the worst.
A helping hand, to the abyss.
A good idea, gone badly amiss.

Forbidden fruit in a garden of weeds,
A blackened pit its solitary seed.

Oh what it could be,
Just as easy to see,
If simply he’d see,
How he shouldn’t be.

He sees the fruit in a garden of weeds,
From his cold hunger, he seeks to be freed.

Oh what it has been,
Can never be seen,
If what he has seen,
Has not ever been.

Forbidden fruit from a garden of weeds,
The man’s final reward, a blackened seed.

A helpful dream, twisted in its age.
A secured rope, up to a cage.
Good growth, of a flame.
A cure, a maim.

In a lost and broken garden of weeds,
Stoops a man, cold pain replacing his greed.





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