Mary in the Garden

            and Mary was lost; alone out there in the most beautiful garden she'd ever shone her eyes on; the flowers, knee high, how they glistened like walls; and she must've been thinking of plenty things, like beauty (how it always seems to be springing up, falling forth, like it or not) and death (was it worth all that trouble just for a change of scenery) and how lovely the little sunflower was in her hand, how it seemed to pulse with her every tear; listening; and Mary sat, very still there in the garden, wondering how she might get out; and then the gardener's voice, breaking through like down,

 pursuit

            and so, i decided to seek after beauty, truth seeming far from my grasp; this writheful longing, i could make it gleam. evil teaches nothing, suffering teaches rarely; polished, i learned to love them both; their steely soft, shining back some semblance of my face; (i hadn't seen my face in years); and i was beautiful; all grim and distorted; and i said this beauty's mine