I show the world a garden,
But in my soul’s a graveyard.
There is ice upon the air;
And yet, the place is charred.
There grows there tongues of fire
Despite that constant cold;
It’s ringed all round with briar,
And the graves are crowned with mold.
Something of this place draws me:
The very chill has me enthralled.
I’m drawn further and further in:
I feel as if I’m called.
When I find what I am looking for,
It’s the same every time.
I clear away to read the graves;
And I find every one is mine.
Graveyard
Published
Writer In Retrospect 
Was this inspired by our discussion, or was the comment inspired by this piece?
Nice piece.
However, I did not understand the fire and the mold and cold co-existing. Does it mean that maybe you don’t know your graveyard oh so well? Which would be a good thing, because you might not want to go down the rabbit hole.
Also, I like the closing lines a lot. Multiple deaths…
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Inspired by our conversation. When I first started writing the idea out to you, it was practically a poem already; I think I even rhymed a little… The actual poem didn’t quite meet my expectations; but then, it was very late by the time I actually wrote it.
People are paradoxes. Balance scales holding extremes, tipping from one, to the other, and back again. Or perhaps more like balance scales holding slightly smaller balance scales, which are holding even smaller balance scales and so on, each one branching into two: an infinite cacophony of opposites infinitely seesawing, all at once. It seems like chaos. And yet, if you follow it all the way back to one seesawing scale, you can see a certain order in all the ones after it. Fire, and ice, and mold, may seem contradictory to each other, but in this case they all have one commonality: me.
Does that make ANY sense?
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It did make sense until “fire, and ice…”. I forgot what we were talking about (which post, etc.).
Then I re-read it and got it.
Why is it always extremes? Why can’t people be more sensible and balance the middle?
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