Garden of Evil

deep in the heart of the woods lies a garden

overgrown with venemous vines of hatred and choked with tendrils of fear

gossamer threads of spiderwebs cling loosely to stoic and weathered old oak trees

they drift weakly in the wind that howls through the evergreens, yet hold strong

entrapped within them is a tiny windup dancer with arms and legs all tangled and spirit all fractured

matchstick arms and legs and a frail bird wing’s thrum of a heartbeat

she stirs listlessly as if to escape 

but quickly abandons her futile efforts, as if lulled into resignation by the constant movement of her captor

a single teardrop glistens on her alabaster cheek

until it falls and lands, lost amongst the hues of the garden and the visceral, tangible feeling of death that emanates from it


from where her achingly beautiful sadness landed

a rose blooms crimson against a canvas of opposites

a raven calls in the distance as the rose envelops her diminutive figure in its velvet petals

and all is quiet, save for the lament of the breeze”

-emma cavanaugh


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