The Garden of Life- poetry

 Poetry is unending just as numbers- oh, and pi.

#thegardenoflife needs replanting,

all those solitary sighs-

Work is really playtime

and prison when you're alone,

Windows are worn out from staring,

no carrier pigeons or telephone,

The Dinner table in the attic,

like a dog without a bone-

Winter wood unchopped; still growing

love's in the garbage where it was thrown.

Seeds of animosity are spouting

where good things are supposed to grow.

Poetry is unending- help make the garden grow.

ZSP (i just wrote this)