breezes dust paths worn to ash,
risen to civilization,
fallen to rubble in less time.

cloves of ivy gather to infect
like gossip, and syphilis cures
the vineyard of pests.
this is a temple of god,

i need not remind the thorny
weeds, reaching up to pull the flesh
like cadavers scavenging
blossoms, wreaking havoc in orchards
sewn by the hands of the righteous.

i have been pricked by a brier,
and cast shadows
in the valley of death.

i beseech the wanderers,
join me.

there is fruit of knowledge
free from worms of naivety.
ripe with the sheen of accomplishment,
and compassion devoid
of faith; the moral compass

that points the finger
for the painter of death.