THE IMPERIAL GARDEN
I walk the Imperial Garden of Abstract Thoughts
where the hedges are theorems
and the fountains run on doubt.
The roses are syllogisms—
each petal a premise,
each thorn a conclusion
that bleeds.
A statue of the Self
stands in the center,
headless, holding a mirror
that reflects the gardener.
The gardener is me.
The moon is a period
at the end of a sentence
nobody finished.
I walk the paths
the way a word walks
through a poem
it did not choose.
At the gate,
a sign reads:
EXIT ONLY
in a language
I have not yet learned.
I stay anyway.
The garden is mine
the way a scar is mine—
not chosen,
but carried,
and somehow
still beautiful.
