And of the vines that encompass that tower,
each soak in black blood as they bloom by the sun.
In a coat of crude fluid, they blister and flower,
an aged, dusty corset of crimson red thread.
Buds will greet all, spreading petal eyes,
spitting low mists all to the sprawl.
Yet the blooms have no hopes of such things.
Yet the blooms have no thoughts of such things.
Yet the blooms must oblige to such things.
One can spread his lips and taste such things.