The Poetic Side of Disturbia

Wicked Vine

Ruby red and fragrant rose, your beauty eludes me, for all I see are thorns;

Your rich colour and enticing scent simply masks to conceal your intent.

You wish only to ensnare: to tear ragged the unsuspecting dreamer;

To draw their blood into your barbs.

Your petals tremble; bewitching aroma cast into the breeze.

You tease with such allure.

I shall not be your prey, for to me you are a wicked vine.

Your scent is poison.

Your beauty eludes me.



Sunlight no longer fills them with its radiance.

Only the cold shadow of a pitted tomb looms above.

They bow their heads, clinging feebly to the last dregs of life,

As he who lies beneath once gasped his last breath.

Their petals are faded and sickly as death's pallor,

Once joyous colour and sweet scent

Gone now to earth and decay.