He slid his picture next to hers.
To dust the spaces beneath it.
Let the corners of the frames touch.
Left them together, to see if she would smile.
Pointless spring cleaning.
Her picture was collecting dust.
He held her name so tight behind his teeth-
He forgot he needed to breathe.
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.
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.
From many wild vines come many bitter grapes. Only from a vineyard that is well tended and nurtured will you find sweet fruit. As it is with earthly fruit, so it is with the spiritual fruit. Only from the true vine of Christ will the grapes of righteousness come with the sweet savor that only redemption can bring to the soul.
Put a flower in my hair
for everytime you show you care,
and watch the beauty grow
as the vines intwine
and wind down my spine...
Climb the ladder of my ribcage,
and kiss your way back down,
and see how the gold falls
as the seasons pull me into light;
galaxy brown in my eyes, as warm,
as skin to skin the gardens forms;
I am the bed.
Pull me into the dark with ease
and I shall be my own light,
and I shall fight my fright;
so long as the touch of your flowers do stay
and I will grow, hence forth,
each and everyday.