My garden

Martha the garden Martha... My garden is full of colors. My garden smells like madness. The flowers stare at me, they smile at me. I tilt my head a little, they smile again. The leaves pretend they don’t care, but they make room for me. An insect walks slowly, like he’s the boss. I ask him if he’s seen the sun. He answers with his antennae. In my garden, even silence laughs. And every petal, every stem, has a story to whisper. A secret carried by the wind, that only here I can hear. My crazy garden— yes, it’s crazy. The flowers laugh, the insects sing, the ants form a choir and start a band. I stand still in the middle with dirt on my hands. My crazy garden never asks me why. It gently grabs my jacket and pulls me back inside. My garden was always beautiful— cared for, loved. Now it looks haunted, changed. My garden now is full of faded colors. My garden smells like melancholy. The flowers wear wicked grins, sharp little teeth and scarlet petals. A venomous whisper calls me closer. Martha, Martha… my wife. She always tended it. Martha… now it looks abandoned. My crazy garden— yes, it’s crazy. The flowers laugh, the insects sing, the ants form a choir and start a band. I stand still in the middle with dirt on my hands. My crazy garden never asks me why. It gently grabs my jacket and pulls me back inside. Martha… Martha, where are you? Martha… I search through the paths of the garden and of my mind— both senseless. My hands are covered in soil. Martha, answer if you hear me. I’m here, frozen in the garden. The house spins, but I don’t. I’ll look for you again tonight, wherever you are. Martha… Marthaa? Martha… She has DIED!!!