Nothing Grows in the Garden

I am a blanket of dry soil,
I crumble like forgotten pine needles held between two small fingers.
I can’t breathe,
I soak up the burning sun without giving in return.

I am a tombstone,
My edges rough like your grandfather’s uncut cuticles,
Watchers sit in my presence,
Their eyes rolling back and forth,
mourning the ruins they thought weren’t theirs.

They eat me,
their bodies fill with lifeless earth,
pushing through their skulls.
They need to burn
before a new garden can grow.