My father’s garden, once so pure,
His retirement haven, shangri-la, for sure.
Roses danced in the summer’s breeze,
Spruce stood guard over parading bumblebees.
Alas, time has eroded our garden shore,
Infirmed and immobile, pappas flowering no more.
His son must now maintain the hedges,
But a green thumb is not always part of genetic pledges.
Where once stood flowers, shrubs and trees,
Now rows of makeshift crosses sway in the breeze,
Roses, zinnias, glad and moss,
All lie rotting, decayed and lost.
Faded flowers crying in the sun,
A son’s neglect, not much fun.
Thirsty leaves wilt, praying for rain,
A lack of caring from a son with little brain.
The boy decides to grow some goth,
Bug eating plants, carnivorous froth.
Now, rows of flytraps smile with glee,
The son imports rare, foreign fleas.
Shriveled shrubs that knew earthly delight,
Now shake with fear at unholy sight.
Limbs and loins from insects devoured,
Litter the ground that now looks soured.
Wafting scent of garden pure,
Replaced by danky,dung-filled moor,
Colors, bright, alive and gay,
Now the hue of carcass clay
Insects enter with child delight,
Seeking pretty blossoms bright.
Pure intent to suck the nectar,
But witness they a dreadful spectre
For this garden hath become pure hell,
For winged creatures in this dell.
Bugs of size and shape so varied,
Are now to Satan’s beasts so married.
Trapped by leg and insect arm,
Flytraps exert their dammed charm.
Pitchers drown their buggy prey,
Sundews show their sticky way.
Body of ant, mosquito and fly,
Testament to hunger that never dies.
More and more the flesh-eaters feed,
Mad rage to meet their meat-eating needs.
And as the summer’s solstice pass,
The flesh beasts gain unholy mass.
Boyd by size and number and shape,
Upon large prey the traps now gape.
Soon,insects no longer satisfy their hunger,
The carnivores wait for pray in number.
Cats and dogs, rats and mice,
No longer are insects all that nice.
By summers end, the worm does turn,
For the feeding beasts gain a new yearn.
Plants that once knew critters fresh,
Develop a taste for human flesh.
The son, he frets his time is near,
The monsters smell his sweat and fear,
As autumn wanes, he cowers neath tree,
But fleshers know, he’ll never go free.
From winter’s wet carpet, a lone marigold peers,
Saddened by loss of her flowery dears.
But before she sleeps neath her wintery tomb,
She smiles, knowing young gardener has met his doom.
A hand appears from out of the snow,
The son has met with ungodly woe.
The flytraps have had their last hearty feast,
For they have consumed the human beast.