In this old house on the corner,
The wooden beams are turning green,
And the neighbours say the vines
Are not like anything they’ve ever seen.
Unrelenting as the night arrives,
Untameable by dawn, at best,
The vines that started as a garden feature,
Envelop the house as it lays to rest.

The creaks of this old door mock me.
I’m haunted by the sound of birds.
They tell me to go home and rest,
They say I’m acting more and more absurd.
But these vines, they’ve grown within my lungs,
Up my throat, and out of my mouth,
And in my search for a safe...