Ivydale Road

The ivy grew on his heart;
I weeded it from mine.

The ivy grew on his heart,
while mine became sublime.

Our ivy stems aren’t green
but red,
and murderous –
sick in the head!

Their roots are loose
but wound-up, too.
They box each other –
earth their zoo.

To tame them
a back-breaking task
(for light-weight fists
and nervous hearts),

but for the keeper
of their secret,
doors they open.
Love no deeper.

 

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W.I.P.

Tell me about fiction.
Tell me all you know.
My ears will gently listen
to my mind, slow to compose.

Your night-tale is what lifts me,
scraps the Ts
and reasons with me,

shifting sand
turns to uncover
a mind so strong;
its owner’s mother.