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It was an unexpected travesty
While I sipped on my Paris tea

Black and swirling in the creamy cup
The melancholy inside wasn’t made up

The touches shared never to be replayed
A pen left wordless on the splotched page

The story of us dwindled and ended
I’ll yearn the soul I lost and befriended

It stains the wanderings in my heart
Restless longing never to depart

Will she look at you the way I did too
Or with her smile is your gaze anew

Amongst any spoken tendril I have to say
You’ll ignore it regardless, keep it at bay

No matter wherever I beg and try
Forever I’ll be pinned as the bad guy

Your friends affirm it without any doubt
The words you spill attract gallons of clout

And even with a vine of knowledge to prove
They’d pry and spy ‘til nothing’s left to prune
Whilst drinking my daily cup of Harney and Sons Paris tea I imagined this scenario. The heartbreak of being replaced is shattering indeed.
The rose of love withered on the vine
In lifeless disposition she'd remain
Her syrupy nectar slowly did decline
A bewailing sorrow in ending twain
No recapture of a past happiness
The petals perished browning to dark
Disappearing elation's gleefulness
A flower's heart minus her loving spark
Without the touch of fondness on the bloom
Her brilliant brightness faded well away
Those wondrous days were replaced by gloom
Sombre melancholy of saddest pall's shay
As dusk's hour turns to the dying closeness
Reflect on the rose's mood of dimness
Corrinne Shadow Nov 2020
Two hearts bound,
Twining round
A thorny vine.
It's yours and mine.

Two hearts bleed.
My guilt, your greed.
You took away
My yesterday.

Two hearts kiss.
You longed for this.
I stood my ground.
Now we are bound.
Why are only the morbid poems natural to me? If I try to write something happy it just seems forced.
Steve Page May 2020
Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.
John 15 - I am the true vine.  Galatians 5 - The fruit of the Spirit.  A mash up.
Diksha Prashar May 2020
Don't hide
Let me read along the lines
Connecting mine
Heart ties
Like vine
Feeding from
Your sizzling warmth
Surrounded by
Your touch.
Jenish Mar 2020
Grape vine held out her soft hands
Red pine bow down and hold hands
Will they care not my shy look?
Love in dark woods that thrive lands.
Kaitlin Evers Jan 2020
Give me a place to put myself
I await on a storefront shelf
Give me a sole to lace with mine
The one for whom my heart doth pine

I miss the face that I know not
I'm blue like a forget-me-not
Just thinking about you
Wondering what you do

I love your eyes
Your hand in mine
I hate our goodbyes
And waiting for signs

You are a vine, and I am your rose
Loving you wholely, right down to my toes

I don't know who you are
But you cannot be far
I will know you someday
At least, that's what I pray
Crystal Freda Dec 2019
Voluminous v I n e s
producing the sweetest f r u I t s.
Growing with positivity and l o v e
all the way down to the r o o t s.

One snip was all it t o o k
to break the vines a p a r t.
Dead and extremely d a m a g e d
spraying black ink around the h e a r t.

Strangled in b r o k e n e s s
as lonely scissors cut the l i n e.
Growing the sweetest f r u I t s
and one snip just broke the v I n e.
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