drown the red;

i opened the little black book
&i realised that what fills it, was'nt mine.
the pages are filling to the brim
the core as solid as stone.
the lock is tempting,
my hand is itching.
but the aftermath will be forever clinging,
clinging to the heart, not on the skin.
the curiosity overtakes, but the sadness kills,
how could this ever be
when the aims of having a garden fully scented,
was fumed in the end.
&i, as the gardener could only contemplate
watch &wait with apprehension.
as it's being weed out one by one.


&so this little black book
which holds thousands of quagmires.
while i am at one of those receiving ends.