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I’m a vine.
I’m still growing,
slowly slithering, snakelike
up the wall, and it’s a long fall
from where I am, but I keep going, growing,
knowing that I’m not all-knowing.
My thoughts leave, like leaves,
leaving more thoughts,
thoughts thought to have had more thought
than they really did. But not really.
They’re pretty simple.
And pretty, and simple, if I may be so bold as to
be bold enough to say so.
And in joking, things I say,
provoking thoughts that lie unbroken.
Or lay others into thought,
maybe contemplating and overcomplicating
the rhythm of my reason.
But I usually don’t have reasons,
just acting on feelings,
dealing with the dealings of the seasons.
Growing my path, wrapped around the pillar of fate,
never worried, knowing that it’s never too late.
And on this fate that I’m wrapped around,
like a cloak on this vine on the pillar
I’m snuggled tightly, safe and sound
by the sound of the reassurance of the Maker,
the Gardener, who tended me to where I lie
on this pillar, moving ‘till I reach the sky.
And that reassurance, it ensures this vine
will grow and see something almost as divine.
That before mine eyes meet Thine
I’ll meet another vine growing next to mine,
And we’ll leave some little vines behind,
and they’ll have a fate just as grand as mine.