Carved away, in the midst of the city
There’s a garden as calm and lush as Greece.
A memorial to murder, watered by tears of pity:
Boston’s Garden of Peace.

Daisies push up rounded stones,
Each bearing an engraved name, and date;
But they’re not grave marks covering bones,
They’re pebble-reminders of violent fate.

While the garden itself is a thing of beauty,
Looping pathways, and well-kept trees,
It makes you think “Someone might shoot me,
And I’ll be nothing more than a stone like these.”

Though I doubt the garden is to warn us of crime,
Or to remind us that our lives, we merely lease,
Perhaps it’s to inspire us to live with desire
Before a dagger, bullet, or piano wire
Snips our time
And carves our names in the Garden of Peace.

But as I sit and think of how these souls decay,
Another truth burns, and fuck, it’s a seether;
Though the dead can’t hear us, it’s a lie to say
That we can’t hear them either.

 

 

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