My Secret Garden

I wrote this in August, at the end of a period of very confusing depression. Suddenly I had hope. I've never written a poem before. So I was surprised, when my words sort of fell into place, and made a pattern, unlike my usual ramblings that no one can read, not even myself.

My Secret Garden

No One has a key,
To my secret garden.
It is my place to hide.
It is my place to dream.
There I gathered all my treasures,
From the time I was a child.
There are dreams.
There are stories.
There are memories.
There are songs.
Every year, I collect more.
But now there are too many.
I cannot see them all,
Their beauty has begun to fade.
So many dreams are broken.
Countless stories lie untold.
Many memories have vanished.
Saddest of all, the songs are all tangled
They can never be sung.
For treasures, aren't meant to be hoarded.
The gifts we are given, have to be shared.
Dejected, I sit,
In my wasted garden.
Surrounded by a lifetime of mistakes.
Some my own, some from others,
But all the mess, inside my garden.
Could I clean it up?
And start over?

But cleaning isn't easy.
It even causes pain.
I cut myself on shattered dreams.
I bruise myself on hidden memories.
The discord of the silent songs
Rips at my heart, as with sharp talons.
I do what I can, which is not much.
My strength has drained away,
The darkness has come.
I am glad for the cover,
Now I can cry.
My sobs, like my treasures,
Are many and messy.
Some are broken, some are hidden,
Some are twisted and painfully silent.
But they bring comfort,
As they reach deeper and deeper.
Tears flood my garden,
Soaking through my treasures.

As my sobs grow silent,
I hear something growing,
From the depths of the dark stillness,
It is quivering with life.
I dare not breathe,
Every muscle is listening,
My eyes are wide open,
To catch a glimpse of the sound.
I can feel it swelling and growing,
And swirling around,
Gathering colors and gathering sounds,
From all of the pieces,
Of broken treasures,
Weaving together,
A heavenly song.
Even the pain and the darkness,
Have a place in the pattern.
It rises higher and higher,
lifting me up,
Renewing my strength,
And giving me hope.

The song isn't over,
It has only just begun.
I'm thankful for the friends,
Who planted a song in my heart.
And I'm thankful for the friends
Who water it with prayers.
I'm thankful for the friends who give it plenty of sunshine.
Through each one of you,
God makes my song grow,
This song in my heart,
That is now singing strong.