The Vine

Curling, creeping, strangling-

this feeling is a vine

rooted nowhere, feeding.

This feeling isn’t mine.

Mask, please come and take me,

I’d wear you like a cross,

heavy and unpeeling,

so they won’t see the loss

of innocence and life,

that reassuring pulse.

Where is it now, I wonder?

Now everything is false.

Even me, trusted friend

of me and I alone;

I sing, but now, no answer-

all music overthrown.

Why is this fan so heavy?

This foolishness in lace.

My wrists are weak, I cannot speak,

nor even hide my face.

So please mask, come and take me

and end this wretched road.

Make me believe the lies they see

so I won’t let it show-

that this vine grows inside me

and whispers every day

its rootless words, it mutters-

as all meaning slips away.