Ethereal Gardens of the Vine-Bound Spine

Poem | Duration: 3 Minutes

This piece was written for Week 3 of the #MarchoftheCORE archival event hosted by Arthadian Anthologies.

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A portal opens and you enter,

Then blossoms a world with you at its center.

When last you were called, 

You milled about these halls,

These archives of authored scrawls, 

Threatened to decay and dissolve,

Etched into sequential lines,

Forming stories transcending time.

In days long past, vine-bound spines bloomed brilliant gold,

Now they’re shriveled and grey, untouched and cold.

Your smile was ever bright, your laugh gentle and pure,

Empty shelves suffocate the night, a torture to be sure.

Birthing willows of what we call home,

Without your touch they wilt, uninspired and alone. 

The sun shines, yes, but in an unrelenting blaze,

Seeing quite clearly the irony of our unenlightened ways. 

Stone pillars stand tall, their arches holding strong,

Yet, moss smothers their surface, hidden all along.

I miss your admiration, your sense of wonder and surprise,

The abiding awe spilling from twinkling eyes. 

Therefore, that is why I toil away,

Setting things right, one page per day.

Over time, I revive the emerald valley score,

A song so grandiose, the sapphire sky breathes once more.

I develop a muse out of handcrafted statues,

Polishing the shine to mirror that favored soul of mine.

I tend to the creaking of the chamber door,

Opening the flood gates to Heaven’s shore. 

Oh, how I control where these seeds go,

Sprouting abundantly in a neat little row.

Our sanctuary of ideals is defended from those that lurk, 

Yes, it is ours, despite your absence while I work. 

Because I know in the end you will appreciate its worth,

Once I affix it with every desire, every last comfort.

Your return is my greatest victory,

The latest sign it was meant to be.

I’m grateful for the smile upon your face, the laugh that resonates,

And since that is for me to see and hear, 

This illustrious garden is for you, and you alone, my dear.

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Ethereal Gardens of the Vine-Bound Spine is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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