THE VINES HAVE STOPPED CREEPING

The vines have stopped creeping, the walls won’t have them, and they bleed on the dead flowers that have lost their keeper, dust and rust are all that remains in this garden
I’d give my bones , my flesh and my crippled mind, just to see a single bud, a sparkle of colour, but that bolt already flew and there are no other offerings because the vines have stopped creeping

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