Purgatory
This is where you wait for spring,
where everything seems as dead
as your own spirit,
a garden cultivated, pruned, planted
and left then to the seasons,
fickle things that can kill with cold
or raise flowers with an early heat wave.
But it is hard to see it now.
Now, it is a bleak, mournful place.
Now, day to day
nothing changes.
There is nothing left to do
except wait and discover
whether you live in heaven
or hell.
About this poem.
To me, mixed emotions are the worst. And I hate to wait. Waiting is closer to hell then purgatory. But sometimes it leads to heaven.
Or so they say.
Tom
