The Secret Garden

This is a story about our encounter:
A secret bestowed upon a garden
By the keepers of a magical town,
Centred within Gaelic wilderness,
Frivolous birds briskly fly their wings
Into the flowers of a peaceful summer,
We become trees: young and wise,
Organic leaves delineating our soul,
Signs of nature pulling us here,
A nest for storytellers, a sanctuary so
Sacred till the last sip of a teapot,
Brewed within earthly volcanic
Waters to be consumed by many
Celestial souls of serene beings,
The story tells of an enigmatic
Inscription well-preserved within
Its silent walls and cushioned floors,
Within its dim lights and fragrant
Candles, within the cheerful friends
And the veiled whispering couples,
The story discloses to the passers-by
The will to dance a tribal ritual
Energised by the rare melodic aether,
Strings of a golden harp revealing
The vivid colours of this garden,
The story now flicks to a different
Chapter as the door cracks open
And the chimes of our steps reach
This realm’s magnificent keepers,
The same ones who forged this
Hideout for us to share something,
So, relax, take a sip, and enter the story.

Introversion

And here I thought Monday night
Would be deserted from socialising
Creatures, seeking a place of serenity,
A some sort of sanctuary, or an
Uninhabited temple far from
Civilisation, somewhere in the depths
Of endless oceans, or within the
Magnanimous dampened jungles,
Or even on the blazing sand dunes,
Albeit, this particular café had a
One-seated table-for-four in one of
Its corners, the most annoying thing
Was the high-pitched creatures, and
So, the night kept going even when
The longed sanctuary was nowhere
To be found, and lost was I amongst
These socialising extroverted creatures.