I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser.
In Him is pure peace and pure life and none lesser.
In Him is everlasting and nothing's even better.
His Word is not a chore list, it's an eternal Love letter.
He prunes every branch that abides and Him and bears fruit
He seeks the ones that chose the path of endless pursuit
Of His face, His will, a branch who chooses to go all out
A life greatly lived, a life who can't live while Him without.
Every branch in me that does not bear fruit He takes away
A happy illusion, a path of the gold-plated astray.
But to a dismay, without the roots a branch goes dry
Thrown to the ground, iuyet picked up but thrown to the fire.
The branch whog stay true to the Vine pleases the Vinedresser
Who calls out to Him amidst the thorns, despite the world's pleasure
With so much fruit a branch has no better sign
When trampled by life would produce the finest wine.
You and I were the tree and the vine,
I was yours and you were mine.
I often felt that I was the tree,
for all the roots that came under me.
You were the vine, beautiful and light;
I loved you best for never clinging too tight.
You said that all along it was I who clung,
and then and there something died where I hung.
This tree of mine had changed its leaves,
and grown contempt within its eaves.
And I, the vine and parasite
was bid a prompt and cold goodnight.
By the time I fell to the forest floor,
life as I knew it was no more.
Reality a vine
cut short as it grew
tangents of grapes
each fell a direction its own
revelations of faces
in alternate places
cross stretches of spaces
like speed of light races
time travel acquired
time line expired
time itself, tired
time, into minds, wired
like electrical current
like electrical impulse
like instinctual whims
like sensual sins
Her heart is a broken record
Constantly being scratched by knives and scissors
Lost in their quest to find a spot still intact
When put in the old phonograph
It plays a soft melody filled with piano notes
That sound like rain on a gray day
The strings of the violin echoes in the background
Along with the lower tones of the cellos
The solitary saxophone cries;
The flutes and clarinets follow its lead,
Desperately letting out their high notes of agony
Drums emerge blasting anger
Encouraging the rest of the instruments to go along
And when it is about to hit its climax…
Another scratch – a deep crooked scratch.
It takes a while before the song starts over.
It’s hard to imagine
This was once a beautiful, shiny vinyl
That stood up in the wooden shelf
Now it is filled with dust
Making company – only – to the Merlot sitting by the desk
And to the ears that can hear nothing
But the harmony of the broken hearted.
How long have I been laying here?
Since when did my left arm fall asleep?
I look up to the darkened clouds
I can see both the sun and moon
My body now lays in the shade
I look to my sleeping limb
down to my chilled fingers
And I notice
A thin green vine
curled around my pinky finger
How long has it taken you to grow on me,
I smile, as I naturally love nature's ways
Carefully, I uncurl the vine and stand
It hasn't taken me long at all to grow on you,
I'm a vine
with a mind
one of a kind.
I engulf those around me,
A black hole with no future,
they just keep falling,
"Britney, I love you
isn't that enough?"
but I don't want kids,
I'm not ready to marry,
I won't be carried,
but those are just excuses.
with common legality.
I'm sorry you fell,
the beginning of your hell,
and although there is another side,
"You're the branch and I am the vine"
Stay with Him for He is divine,
"A branch cannot bear fruit on its own"
Lest it stay with Him alone.
"Abide in me and I in you"
Remain good, loyal, and kind and true.
Which will you choose?
I dream’d this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz’d to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv’lits were embrac’d:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.