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The Garden

How peaceful can a backyard garden be?
Many plants call this place their home
And in the middle resides a rather mysterious tree
Being watched over, guarded, by the unfazed gnome

There are bugs there too, ants, spiders, and flies
They live among this strange forest of lies
For what's buried under such a pretty sheet of green
Is quite the morbid, nasty scene

Atop the soil there is common grass
Many roses shoot up as well
While from afar these plants seem quite crass
though, in no store do their seeds sell

One tranquil night a girl steps in
Without knowing this garden of sin
She sniffs the tulips, the marigolds and daisies
and thinks it's her oases

But the flowers, they turn!
The plants seem to stare back,
even the common silver fern,
She's fallen into the garden's special surprise attack!

The grass folds to trip her and binds her wrists
She cannot fight though her hands were locked in fists
Roots emerge to tie her legs,
and bamboo strut out, impaling her feet like pegs.

Ivy move in with leaves jagged and sharp
with poison and swiftness it numbs and saws at her thighs
As she so helplessly screams and cries
To quiet the child leaves form a tarp

Not only was she trapped and bound, but now also blind
For the spores of fungi have began to hijack her mind
She could still pain of her lower limbs coming off
The plants intend to prepare her as their feeding trough

As blood spills out the roses take notice
The stems bend down to drink the crimson spirit
As the excess flows into the pond, staining the lotus
It's now long passed the time for the girl to fear it.

Immobile now, since her legs are torn,
she wonders what will happen to the rest her
Then she feels it, on her left hip a thorn
then another and another, piercing the fur.

Like many bullets more arrive, thirsty is the rose
to drink more of such a fine red wine
She was quite nimble, though the rose thought it was fine
They'll drink her dry, from her head to her toes.

She lets out yet more cries as her arms and bled limp
Stinging with wounds all over, her mind goes blank
She voice diminishes from cries to a whisper to the silence of an imp
And now all that's left is a fresh flesh plank.

The old tree smashes her remains to a fine powder
Maybe he will save it to make some nice human chowder
But he must hurry, since morning is nigh
For if anyone saw this mess not even a bird could fly.

Her cloths and bones sink into the earth
Just like many other victims, she failed to flee
Perhaps will she learn, in her next birth?
How peaceful can a backyard garden be?