Harvest

So full.
The night. The moon. My dreams.
Doubt be the villain who brings about my fears.

So cold.
The frost. Your eyes. My screams.
Decay be the root of my trailing tears.

Picked apart and held aside; a display of emotional color.
How inclined to run and hide; yet I'll have no other?

This is what I have to give; this is my attention.
Why do I choose to live wrapped in apprehension?

So good.

The fruit. The feelings. The fun.
Sprinkled among the weeds of insecurity.

Sow nice.
The hurt. The laugh. The sun.
Funny how a garden can grow in the city.