It is old and scarred and tired.
It searches through cynical refuse, afterbirth of a thousand forgotten maybies.
The wind howls laughter of promises, whipping dry, empty eyes that seek only The Garden.
Stumbling through the wreckage of things not meant to be;
A comet held on a moonlit beach,
The pitter of little shoes shod on little feet,
The peppered sunshine of Southern wine.
As serenity escapes on the wind through desperate fingers it whispers a message –
The Garden isn’t to be found, it can only be built by me.