Comfort Clothes And Creeping Vines

Comfort clothes and creeping vines


Comfort clothes and creeping vines,

Get juxtaposed, become entwined.

To a book of brilliance his thoughts led,

Onto the white pages he bled.

He cut back the jungle growth, macheted nine times, elusive rhymes, to pay for his crimes,

To win his bread.

Tread softly my sweet around his prose,

Be wary of his scented nose,

Its him they want, instead.

It’s not the greens that make him smile,

It’s not the olive branch he proffers, for a while,

It’s the crawling, it’s the reds, it’s the courtesan he weds, in the end.

In the end he becomes a pile of sticks in the mind, or on the forest floor,

You could burn them, with a flame, in a second.

You can keep whatever you find, from behind the polished door.

Twice a day he swooned, with a pile of bones that sit watching,

Waiting to be exhumed.