Letter to the Gardener

There's nothing left but to trim the hedges,
your waking hours filled by visions of flowers--
I've come to hate how I wrote them,
faded edges and flashback sounds.
A bad sitcom circled in lies
now a void of wet, beige paint.

My head is full of clean lines,
federal documents with print too small.
My thumbs have fallen off. Soon
not even the plants will grow.

By echoshindig