A gorgeous vine, stood before a man,
but this is not a flower, he murmured,
overworked for many hours,
He cursed, seething his suffocating dower,
at this plant that dared mock the flowers,
to its place he should return it,
His hateful heart sought to burn it where it stood,
but he understood, to truly wound is to leave a mark,
so he gnarled his face and gathered his phlegm,
spat,
down upon this comely green being that wasn't his friend,
and watched himself drip past the superimposed grin,
and in this plant that wasn't bleeding, he was brought chagrin,
and kicked,
and kicked it's leaves over,
and over,
again,
To the midnight,
and dusk,
this song, to sing and fall over, eternally once again,
the callous man's rage, the empty man's grin,
To that, a farewell.
