If life is a garden,
I have seeded nothing but thorns.
And if you want to see them blossom:
You will need to bleed.
I’ll spend my life,
Riding myself of a fickle tradition.
No more evil deeds
As I empty my heart:
All of the thorns drop from me like dust.
Because there is no such thing.
Stripped to a being just being,
Without any consolation or comfort.
And left in emptiness: