The vines rest in the winter,
leafless with thorns and berries sharp in relief.
You have watched it from afar
slowly clambering its way up the brick walls,
tendrils digging into old mortar,
hanging heavy off brick walls.
Here, in February they look like and airy,
a spiked latticework
made of air and magic.
Come spring, leaves will emerge
and the vines will live again,
silently growing, unnoticed as secret sin,
stealing the stone’s strength,
crumble by crumble,
a beautiful murderer, never recognized
until the walls fall down.
About this poem
A poem about the silent sins that kill. Abuse. Neglect. Racism. Sexism. Faith used to bludgeon rather than lift up. All of it. Quiet. Too often hidden behind masks.
And deadly. Always deadly.