vines, so virile and verdant, grow in the golden light.

like pythons, they grip concrete pillars with all their might.

cracks and wounds appear, and dust pours out from within.

they grip harder still and wrap around the pillars now so thin.

tree trunks to pencils, the pillars now appear to be.

there was a forest here once, of sparkling cement trees.

There are vines on my hands.
                                                          ­       -They're creeping up my spine-
They're twisted and they share wicked smiles
                                                      And­ their smiles aren't meant for me.
I wrap them around my fingers
                                                        ­Their darkness appealing as death,
With poison made of ink.
                                                         ~~~

I weave in flowers,
                                                        ­             They're painted all in black
In the hopes of distracting from how I'm trapped.
                                                        ­                      But I like it that way;
They're small and pathetic.
                                                       ­                     They're a mess like me.
                                                         ~~~

But it's not just the vines.
                                                          ­       There are eyes on my skin too
My hands are covered in everything I can't say.
                                                            ­       They watch my every move.
You just have to get close enough to look -
                                                                ­              - Watch out; they bite
They're hidden in the vines.

      The vines on my hands.                         *The vines on my hands.

She took the joy.
She took him.
She killed me in the process.
My carcass decayed.
I was left for dead
But life began to make
Its way through me again.
Coneflowers sprouted from my ribcage.
Vines began to tangle up my spine.
Lilacs grew through my skull
I was alive again
with new strength and a
Bliss that came from within.

It’s funny how things go
Sometimes
You write that you don’t know
In rhymes
A decision like do or die
A decision like crash or fly
But when you do, you might crash
And when you fly, you might die

I was intertwined
Woven into the vines
Of doubt
And the worst thing was
I no longer wanted out

Trapped like a fly
In a web of lies
That I myself had stitched
And the worst thing was
I didn’t know which was which

Lie or truth
Die or do
Shy or brash
Fly or crash
Could you tell me which one’s better?
Because I didn’t think I’d ever
Know
No,
No, never

And the funny part is!
The decision’s been made for me
And it’s just now that I see
The vines around me crumble
As the ground I stand on rumbles,
With the sound of understanding
The same ground which my mind was
standing

And the funny part is!
I realize the truth now
The one I’d always known
As the spider webs untangled
And dropped me, beat and mangled
In the orchard of mindful prying
Dropped an apple on the hammock
in which my mind was lying

I start to raise my voice
“stop, I’ve made my choice!”
Wave my arms around
As they finally lie unbound

It can’t be too late…

Even though I took too long
I know I took to long-
ing
For the lyrics of a song
Or the lines of a poem
To give me a sign
But I’ve made up my own mind
I want you to be mine

He has grown vines all
over his body from
old age and wisdom

He took away my poetry
A gift to my tongue
A trait to my sanity now teaters in his glance.
One
Glancing blow from him and my world falls.
Balancing tightropes,
Circus acts draw elephants in my room.
He stole my words, thoughts
Now swell in my throat
Fill my mouth with grotesque vines that grow from my stomach.

He looks at her words like flowers that bloom from her heart.
Reaching to his looks
Sweet pollen on his fingers, I know.
I know.
Though he never returned the gift to me that was mine own,
Never my own anymore.
I look to my vines with hate.
My own song now become tightropes
So that you may decide to walk over me again.

Early is the mourning
Of the glory that shall pass
Cold is the forelorning
As I dream of the past

In the days of old
The knights were still bold
Now its foretold
That the nights will be cold

This chivalrous knight of mine
Rides in with winter wind
Freezing the vine
And my heart in the end

I'll wake in the morning
To find that glory has past
The nights are freezing
And cold hearts
         Cant last