The Ivy speaks in whispers we can't hear,
roots tunneling through stories we forgot.
It latches onto silence, dines on stillness,
wrapping ruins in its quiet embrace.
It knows the language of crumbling stone,
how to climb where others crumble.
Long after the architects have departed,
it holds their dreams like tender secrets.
No clock commands its persistence,
no storm bends its ageless resolve.
It measures time in the stretch of shadows,
its leaves a testament to steadfast decay.
Born to outlast what men construct,
it thrives where ambition crumbles to dust.
To the Ivy, all walls are invitations,
all endings a promise of new beginnings.
So let it climb, unfurl, and conquer—
the quiet conqueror of forgotten edges.
Rare and ancient, resiliently green,
the Ivy endures where we cannot remain.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 11th, 2026 05:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Such a great metaphor Gray so nicely written it creeps like the ivy itself slowly and tenaciously into the mind of the reader and continues to grow long after the structure of the poem crumbles into the shadows of time. A fave my friend
Thank You Soren
You are very welcome Gray this poem was special somehow and caught me in a mood. It is not for everyone but for the pensive and those that reflect on deeper meaning.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...
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