Pluckin roots dead n dried.
Soiled dirt unable to revive.
The beauty of expression is foreva lost.
To grow is to leave the past alone with flaws.
Uprooted holes open up depths.
Filled in for self is the only one left.
Thinking seeds sprout as the choice is there.
Will it be a dandelion or a talking bush buried for a stare?
The pit soothed by sight dug for truths.
Jus memories planted below what was use.
Feet stand on leveled grounds.
In a garden in the here of now...