Poetry of a mystery
The Garden
She wandered along the garden
and smelled each and every rose.
She continued along the path
not knowing where it goes.
She stopped in front of a grave
the name was Mary Rose.
Mary died a century ago
at the age of twenty-one.
The stone said she would be missed
and that she had a son.
There were fresh flowers left in dirt
weeds were everywhere.
Yet the flowers created an aura of love
obviously planted by someone with care.
I continued to walk along the way
but felt a presence in the air.
I stopped and looked around
my emotions overcome with despair.
I was drawn back to that grave
and I slowly approached.
Next to the flowers
I found a broach.
Where did it come from?
I did not know.
I picked it up
and couldn't let it go.
It felt as though a energy
had it's hands over mine,
pictures of Mary Rose
filled my mind.
She was holding her baby
as tears streamed down her face.
She was running along the path,
at an alarming pace.
Next I saw a man
running behind her.
He had a gun in his hand
and fired a shoot
Mary Rose fell down
cradling her son
so he wouldn't hit the ground.
The man took the baby
Mary Rose was dead.
The baby unharmed.
I put the broach down
and the images were gone.
What a horrific memory,
it was all so wrong.
Why did I see such a horrible sight?
I am happy and pregnant.
My birthday is coming
I will turn twenty-one.
My sonogram said,
I am having a son.
When I returned home,
my husband was there.
He had a bad day,
I was consumed with fear.
Where have you been,
you need to rest at home.
Stop wandering away.
I replied I felt alone.
I told him I know
what the Doctor said.
But it's so boring
to lay all day in bed.
Do what your told,
he said with such rage.
I felt like an animal,
kept in a cage.
As I lay down
I patted my stomach with pride.
Soon our son will be born,
and things will be fine.
