The Garden

We've tired of the toil,
the pointless labor for naught.
The wild weeds connived
their way in between and
smothered the flowers' reach.

We've laid down our shovels,
let the rakes gather with rust.
The garden gloves are dirt-caked
and crusted; the compost rot.

We've let the garden go,
no longer vigilant for foes,
no longer living to fight against
conniving weeds smothering
flowers reaching for sun.

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