Vine Whine

Vine Whine

 

This mortal part of mine,

I metamorphose into a vine;

Twirling, curling, rolling snapping,

Cheering in the sunshine,

Refusing all confine;

Only to be trodden by weeds, left to whine,

Lay curled up supine;

For a sinewy stalk did I pine?

It was fate’s design so benign;

Scheming you and me to align,

That I started to entwine, sapping eternal pleasure divine;

Thus to you myself I forever consign,

Beseeching you to be forever mine..

Reviews

[Dayran]

The bond of attachment, often referred to in Hindu literature may be considerably exaggerated. Its there, because the heart so wants to. Where the heart moves on, it unravels. A nice poem!