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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Hush and harken to the stillness, Do not disturb the spirits Lying in their stale graves, Overgrown with vines, Reading and re-reading their epitaphs With begrudged faces Contorted as if they were trying With difficulty to understand Why all those lies were Written for them... And then sitting on the gravestones Or lying leisurely on their beloved vines, They wave those who pass Exhorting them to accept their fate, The ultimate calling of the grave, The ultimate pleasure of sleeping on vines... Those green, ghostly vines, Who converse amongst themselves In low, conspiratorial tones... They can hear them, almost everytime, Gossiping about this man's ugly skull And that man's decaying bones.. But who knows how much longer Before the next vine is born And she grows to be a beautiful vine-maiden Sought after by men of substance, Who with all the gold in the world Pursue her... And, if you are lucky, She might grow on you, And be the first to complain about Your endless snoring, and childish sobbing, For all of them dead do, Alternating steadily, Peaceful sleep peppered with rasping snores, And near-silent sobs, Like that of a woman Rudely robbed of her flower.. Only in the dead of the night Do they finally rise To full wakefulness, To potter about the earth Seeking water from the living. And when they are offered none, They suck on sweats. Enjoying its most fulfilling taste And, eager to remain, They grow new vines, Just underneath the bed, And lay down every night for A salty living drink... Written October 7th 2016 for Broken Wings' Overgrown With Vines contest
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