Wasteland
Like a woman without children.
Solitary stands an old vine.
Ghostly like a night shadow.
Cursed like a bad crop.
Seeking vein of barren soil.
Maybe this is the last morning dew she cries for.
No virtue of a virgin
To tighten its branches with her own hair.
No sun to shine over it.
No birds to steel the grapes.
Nobody will drink its sweat.
Somebody will take it on blistered bare palms.
Far away.
Who knows where?
Wasteland.
Left solitary, ghostly, cursed in a stony grave.
Stony monsters.
Will tear out an old vine.