Shell of imaginary imagination

Caught in the tangled weeds of busy nothing.
A mind fraught and frayed in the vines of life.
I wait for god to cut me free.
Yet in my sleepy weariness I hear.
A starlight voice that tickles the back of my neck.
And turns each shake into a shiver.
God whispers.
It’s all an illusion.
Your garden is your own.
And the demons are just voices trying to find a home.

14 thoughts on “Shell of imaginary imagination

  1. A stunning finale Mark…to a thought evoking poem..
    “Your garden is your own.
    And the demons are just voices trying to find a home.”

    Like

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