Oh— to be a Pothos vine
Crawling towards the light
Always takes her precious time
Makes every room so bright!
Oh— to be a golden green
With marbled fronds so lush
She, the thriving Houseplant Queen
Makes other flora blush!
But, lo— beneath her heavenly form
Her truest magic resides
For through the winter and the storm
She’s balanced as the tides
Oh— to have that perfect Pothos Power
Flourishing through the night
Oh— to grow and never to cower
No matter how daunting the fight
For it’s her courage that we envy,
Her fortitude that we fear
Her resilient leafy frenzy
That will suddenly appear
Even when you think she’s dead and gone
The stars will still align
A tiny sprout will bloom at dawn  
The mighty Pothos vine!

Eros,
Or the limerence I feel.
Is it a sin to adore you?
Eros,
Or the way you drive me crazy.
Is it a sin to worship you?

Through time and space,
Through love and pain,
Eros, you paved the way.
For I was lost in the maze of live,
Fleeing for the shadow of Fear.
Eros, you rescued me
And like a green Pan
Led me to your world.

A world of magic where love flourishes
And sorrows die.
A world where finally
I could be free
With you.
Eros.

Pothos.

I have neglected you, dear one,
once so full and vivid, now
expatriate in the cheerless corner.
Look at you drooping, clinging
to the bloodless parts of you,
having long dwindled in
the thankless dark.
Here I come with a sharp pang,
lovely amputee.
How much happier you will be
to forget the bereft bits,
no longer of use in your unfolding.
Until memory pales,
will your phantom limbs
also rustle in the window’s breeze?

This heart ’twas plucked
                                 and tossed
A young boy stranded
                                 and lost
Laid in a fresh dug bed
Contemplating the blanket of dirt
Sacrificing this mortal coil
                                   to the worms
She found me there
  That coy mistress
                                    She whispered
Her voice the medicine to cleanse
Left as a reminder,
                       Stitched
Left to stories in thy head
A cycle that never ends
These gossamer sinews will not hold
To a finger that pokes
To a hand that grips
The flesh, how it rips
Left exposed
A dark nothingness
Lay thy hand on thine chest
Do you feel a beat?
It doesn’t exist
An empty field
Left for the crows
A seed was planted
How could it grow?
Water from thine eyes
And a hand to hold
In that field of brown
A little green
          Shows

Sunday morning,
and the sun is peaking through the blinds
after a long sleepless night.

The monster that hung over my head all night
is sticking around for the light, it seems,
and it is scaring my Pothos'.

As they wilt,
I am changing the song that's playing,
It's too haunting, too obvious.

An old friend, this specter has become.
I laugh as he spills my coffee.

You are on my mind every moment of every day,
in the dead of night when Incubus rests on my chest,
in the waking hours when Pothos juggles my heart.
Who are you who haunts my soul shaking my very core

When leaf drips off the plants like dew
I know I have failed
Fog on poor gold settled thick
And knuckly branches grasp at my trousers
As they whisper by

Like a nightmare full of the dead

Sorry, I say
With that same wet-paper voice of mine
My footprints forgotten
On dust-dressed tiles
I cannot water you, dear Pothos
I need not
You have no limbs left to feed and
I know I have failed

Failed.

(And so mine a being
In an echoing of souls)

Failed?
Such pretty your tales
And freeing miseries

Sinking frantic
In a devour of spring
These the tentacles of my beautiful Aloe
These the stout roses
My,
My mirthful Jasmines
And grasses–– alive!

Failed?

Green at last!

You bathe in blues and
Craft tragedies from mud
Ruin your love
And despair a bed-slave pretty

Could I weep–– interrupt or scream
But I am wood and they are not

Failed?
Or would you rather?
For fall for you is an effortless flight
And funeral the only peace
Then mourn!

Could I shut the window and
Bar it against the raging city
But breaks— it breaks breaks breaks!

Mourn and mourn!
Till the daylight goes to sleep
And mourn with your wretched stars
For the night

You mock!
Oh, be voiceless, sessile
Thorns again!

And when in the morning
The moon is dead
And thinner our stems
We will say
With that same parched clinging of ours:
We are not dust yet
Are you?

––