Like a tiny bud tearing through mothertrunk that bleeds,
He is born drenched in her slime and sap, gasping for air with insatiable greed.
Crushing her bones, mauling her muscles and leaving vile scars,
He is born wearing her blood like a scythian after war.
But the severed root, now a nub on him, would bear a curse to avenge the blood that shed.
Who would tell the scythian the nub would bleed till his end is met?
That Ivy would sprout from within his nub ,
carving in to flesh, running beside blood,
spouting poison along its girth,
the moment the cord, the root, is cut.
That the shade that keeps him from wild would make his days foggy and dark.
That the branch that keeps him real close would have a grip around his throat.
That the limb that feeds him day and night would bear a green, an ivy ’s sheen.
That the flutter of leaves, the familiar notes, would one day make his insides rot.
That the earthy scent and shades of red would one day singe his skin and bones.
That years down the road, when days seem dark and nights seem bleak,
when air seems dense and breath goes shallow,
the nub would bleed and he would writhe in pain
the veins on his hand would then show a creeper,
a devious green lurking along deeper..
When he meets his end and his pyre is lit, the nub would bleed till the earth is green.