Long ago in times long forgotten there lived a woman of great renown.
A woman named Mildred, with a strange garden well endowed.
Strange for there in her garden, her unassuming garden, there bloomed death,
mesmerizing, scent-provoking, breathtaking, death.
And to her little deadly plot came many a visitor,
Day in-day out, from near and far, they came to see her,
She who took certain death and from it brought forth life.
A healer was she who fought illness’s strife,
Mildred was one whose title was earned.
With Aconite she made it so fevers no longer burned,
With Belladonna she stopped the spasms of a child,
With Wormwood she calmed the belly with pain worse than mild,
With the more plants she grew, the more ailments she healed,
And the more Mildred healed to more people she appealed.
The more she was liked, the more she was known,
The more she was known, the more plants she was shown,
And with the more plants she was shown her garden grew.
Grow so much did her garden grow that it split into two.
One of poison and one of the mundane,
‘Till Mildred had a garden of death and a garden of the plain.
Now her time has passed and Mildred is forgotten by all but few,
Now she is but a question of who.
Her only garden remembered is the one of death,
The other no longer enough to take away the breath.
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I just wanted to write something about a poison garden and it took a life of its own.