A Garden Dream

A Garden Dream is all about a garden in the springtime and its beauty.

Over the moor I skip childishly to my garden.

I can hear the crunch of the ancient stones under my worn violet boots, and I can taste the sugary excitement on my tongue.

The rusty lock turns with the golden key as the door creaks open, and I fall into a land of music-playing fountains, the throaty laugh of a frog as he croaks, and I can feel the rays of honey from the Sun beating down on my face as the sweet, cool breeze's fingers stroke it.

The rich smells of roses and tulips and lilies entrance me.

I must be in a dream.

I lay down on the dewy grass, my head embedded in an army of flowers, tranquility embracing me in a warm hug.

A butterfly lands on my nose, almost purposely tickling it.

I stand up for a dance with the butterfly.

Most ungracefully, I swing myself around the garden, unaware of my surroundings.

The butterfly gracefully flies away, leaving me to sing with the birds.

Oh, by the way, no one knows that i'm in here, so you have to keep it a secret.

I do some weeding while inhaling the crisp, spring air.

The enchanting smells come in swirls through my tiny nostrils, saying hello, and then goodbye as I breathe them away.

I here a crunch on the moist, mossy ground, startling me.

I see the gardener slowly creep up the wall, ready to scold me for tresspassing.

His worn, leathery boots land with a thud on the dirty soil, sending a cloud of it blowing around the garden.

The gardener slaps me, and drags me into my uncle's queer, cold mansion, throwing curses into the cold noon air.

Poor air.

I feel deep, sad sympathy for it as I too, withstand sour curses being yelled.

My life is now over.

Well, the good part at least. My secret garden was the only thing I had left that I truly loved.

But now, the sad truth is

It's not secret, and it's not mine anymore.

The End

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