Trauma in the Flower Garden

Perhaps I chewed too much the memory
of playing in the flower garden; now bitter
juice flows from it. I’ve been living with the

sweet taste of the memory; all of a sudden,
bitter taste runs over the picture; it distorts
the look of joy; the sewer stink from the

flower transforms the struggle of passion
into the labor for survival and the moaning
of ecstasy into the shriek of death. I kept

taking out and lick the cherished memory;
its sweet skin that’s been barely holding is
peeled off and the pain and would that have

been hidden are crawling all over my mind
just like worms are roaming around in the rain.
In the end, beauty is just a single layer? The

happy moment was just a dream? The flower
garden was a just mirage? Should I take the
picture down and burn it with fallen leaves?