Withering in gardens left dry. I"m still soaked from their old chokes. Oh, what a mess I"ve made now. Oh, what a mess of things I"ve made. It"s such a shame; all that dirt couldn"t grow. I put the blame all on the shine and less the soil. We must wilt away if we wish to someday grow, but I"ve wilted and waned over and over. The soil is as far as I can go. That night I lied awake thinking over things. So fixed and quick to burst into blame at any loss of control, without sense of self. It shrouds and distills; it stings and it welts. Though all our plans were dense with trees, I discerned only leaves that were brittle and creased. As I just lied awake overthinking things, life still went on with or without.