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, 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 place to lay my head, my only comfort is this viny ground.

The neighbours see these vines are growing; the run-down house on a nice suburban street.
When the sight of vines becomes too overbearing, to their vineless homes they can retreat.
But this is the home my family left me, with rotting walls and glass shards like jagged teeth.
Only when the arborist gets lonely can such unholy vineyard grow from a wreath.

The birds didn’t stifle when I brought home a lover. They reared their heads and opened their beaks.
And as mockingbirds do, they taunted my mourning; said they’re surprised he even lasted two weeks.
My lover gawked at the craftsmanship; said he loves the house, but these vines are going to kill us both.
He didn't believe that I'm an arborist. ..said that I find solace in the overgrowth.


© Jodes.D