Matthew Shelton-Jones


Interior Gardening

 

As I close my eyes

In a Spring-laced garden,

It becomes more than its mere

Physical components:

Like a swarm of newly-emerged bees,

It drives itself toward

The senses of my body.

 

My inner self responds to this

Unexpected attack

From the supposedly pleasant outdoors.

A growth of vines,

Stemming from the blossom of confidence

Budding in my head,

Shoots down the nerves

And through my chest.

 

A spinal tingling,

The reverberations of this

Initial battle,

Follow with what seems like haste;

But time has lost

Much of the meaning it possessed in

The outdoor sensory world.

 

Water seeping through to the feet,

From the dewy grass,

Turns from a refreshing coolant,

To a fuel

For the oncoming rage.

 

Yellows, pinks and greens

Merge to a fiery red

Beneath the eyelids.

Seeing red has become

The reality:

It is no longer metaphorical-

As the war gets underway.

 

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