There’s an ivy that grows in the quiet of night.
It’s tendrils stretching in soft, secret flight. They twist in shadows, they curl, they cling.. to a heart once warm, now a fading thing.
The leaves are green so deep, it swallows light. But beneath there’s a pulse, a flickering fight. Red, like a fever, lingers in the veins; a love once burn burning, now masked by pains.
Beneath the skin, the blue runs cold; a river of silence, forgotten and old. The Ivy holds, it twists, it winds, guarding the echoes of what it finds.
Blue and red, they ache and burn.
Two sides of a heart, but never to return. For the Ivy knows what the soul will keep: a truth so heavy, it bends, but won’t weep.
In the silence of its tangled fold, a story written, but never told. It whispers of love, but shadows remain – red in the heart, blue in the veins.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 1:53 PM UTC
There’s an ivy that grows in the quiet of night.
It’s tendrils stretching in soft, secret flight. They twist in shadows, they curl, they cling.. to a heart once warm, now a fading thing.
The leaves are green so deep, it swallows light. But beneath there’s a pulse, a flickering fight. Red, like a fever, lingers in the veins; a love once burn burning, now masked by pains.
Beneath the skin, the blue runs cold; a river of silence, forgotten and old. The Ivy holds, it twists, it winds, guarding the echoes of what it finds.
Blue and red, they ache and burn.
Two sides of a heart, but never to return. For the Ivy knows what the soul will keep: a truth so heavy, it bends, but won’t weep.
In the silence of its tangled fold, a story written, but never told. It whispers of love, but shadows remain – red in the heart, blue in the veins.
