When Shakespeare Held My Hand

Emotions make my spirit seep What garden soils my humor weep Dont touch me! O villified vine, supplanted in the soil of turbid grime its fruit unloosed by all its evil clime. I have sown the seed, and in the Garden of Doubt has sprung, up from the height of men's crooked gait. Stay back! Foul roots! Your dispositions growon me daily, my veins are a boiling network of distaste: my blood is hot in my face. These tender highways spread in me, pleading with me, softly - see how villainy is to the serpentine machine, the automate' snake crawling mechanically on oily, dust-bare ground. Where once the plump tomato grew, and pepper sang, and melon sweetly shouts against its roots - so do I - now, even the sun doubts his herbal friend, who, betrayed by the elements too, the rain in its steadfast refrain, and chlorophyll misgives autumnal pain. But, I am joyful of its golden decadence; the tempered canvas between light and shade and only when, when wisdom seeks us out, us, the reapers of our winter glades: the fast-knit stitch of night's decree will fill the fire soullessly.