The Terrible Gardener...
The Terrible Gardener
Fallow ground. All this area, all this soil, it has all lain fallow. Years echo with the autumnal hum of firework vegetation and the steady pattern of failing rain. Harvest upon harvest that ended in failure abound in recent memory and thus all fields lie fallow. The ground is fresh, moist, it breaths a weighty scent into the air and beneath my feet it responds like a child who has lost the touch of a loving relationship. Approaching the farthest row I drop to a knee and dig my hands into the wet earth and dig, as the dirt embeds beneath my fingernails and worms wiggle against my warm flesh. Further down and my hand wraps around and up it comes again. A naked bulb appears, solid and lacking in organic quality, a victim of the terrible gardener. My head hesitates, hanging emotionless, the sense of before covers me and viewing the way home, row upon row, little holes in sequence just like this one. Not a single flower cultivated. Years echo with the grim hum of endless repetition and the steady pattern of fading faith. I lay the unopened bud beside the hole and rise. All the fallow ground lays before me now and at five steps the blackbird swoops down and claims his carrion prize. Scenes in sequence, steps retraced and I'm back to the house now, opening the door now, not looking back now; accepting only the inevitability of rough hands, those of the terrible gardener. Wenn eine Frau ist gelieben, denn, wie einen Bluemen Sie offenen.
Offenen Sie wie einen Bluemen?
Herr Luci
Owen\At Home With Owen "A Bird In Hand"
you know what you are to me
don't make me say it over and over again
it's way too late
or much too early
you know how I get
when I'm left alone to my vices
like the grown-ups did when I was a kid
I said: I'm a bird in your hand so take me as I am
you know what you are to me
don't make me say it over and over again
my left hand, a part of me
it stays late to clean up my mess
when I'm sick of all my choices
like the grown-ups I grew up with
angels and addicts
when I put my arms around you
I mean it
when I'm too drunk to stay up with you
I mean it
when I slam doors 'cause I'm pissed at you
I mean it
when I put on a suit and say "I do"
I mean it
you know what you are to me
don't make me say it over and over again
over and over again
Fallow ground. All this area, all this soil, it has all lain fallow. Years echo with the autumnal hum of firework vegetation and the steady pattern of failing rain. Harvest upon harvest that ended in failure abound in recent memory and thus all fields lie fallow. The ground is fresh, moist, it breaths a weighty scent into the air and beneath my feet it responds like a child who has lost the touch of a loving relationship. Approaching the farthest row I drop to a knee and dig my hands into the wet earth and dig, as the dirt embeds beneath my fingernails and worms wiggle against my warm flesh. Further down and my hand wraps around and up it comes again. A naked bulb appears, solid and lacking in organic quality, a victim of the terrible gardener. My head hesitates, hanging emotionless, the sense of before covers me and viewing the way home, row upon row, little holes in sequence just like this one. Not a single flower cultivated. Years echo with the grim hum of endless repetition and the steady pattern of fading faith. I lay the unopened bud beside the hole and rise. All the fallow ground lays before me now and at five steps the blackbird swoops down and claims his carrion prize. Scenes in sequence, steps retraced and I'm back to the house now, opening the door now, not looking back now; accepting only the inevitability of rough hands, those of the terrible gardener. Wenn eine Frau ist gelieben, denn, wie einen Bluemen Sie offenen.
Offenen Sie wie einen Bluemen?
Herr Luci
Owen\At Home With Owen "A Bird In Hand"
you know what you are to me
don't make me say it over and over again
it's way too late
or much too early
you know how I get
when I'm left alone to my vices
like the grown-ups did when I was a kid
I said: I'm a bird in your hand so take me as I am
you know what you are to me
don't make me say it over and over again
my left hand, a part of me
it stays late to clean up my mess
when I'm sick of all my choices
like the grown-ups I grew up with
angels and addicts
when I put my arms around you
I mean it
when I'm too drunk to stay up with you
I mean it
when I slam doors 'cause I'm pissed at you
I mean it
when I put on a suit and say "I do"
I mean it
you know what you are to me
don't make me say it over and over again
over and over again