The Moonlit Garden is that a good title?

[lovechild]

You hand me thorns for flowers
and ask why I bleed.
My tears salt my own wounds.
To understand a love like ours,
you have to see the need;
which, in itself, is our doom.
Demanding countless hours
picking out the weeds,
hoping something beautiful will bloom.
Along came April showers,
washing away the seeds.
A barren garden plot lit by the moon.

A dream of possibilities,
waken; I am lost.
Dead roses on a shelf in a glass.
A scene flashes in memories
where other petals, tossed,
litter lonely roads back to the past.
In between the tragedies
it matters naught, the cost;
I would be yours again if you would ask.
I redeem myself in reveries,
where all pathways crossed
lead to moonlit gardens, blooming now, at last.