Ripened fruit upon the vine
Your sleeves are rolled up
The vision is distant
Blurred in its edges
But vast and deep
This dream draws you in
And you are ready
Invigorated and charming
You the discerning one
With the quiet flame
When the wax melts
And the metal tarnishes
You will exhale
Into softer intestines
As rules or delays
Bump into your plans
So perfect the vine
That births the fruit
Even after you weave
Vine into flexible rope
The shadows of decay will
Nip at its junctions
Consuming its strength
And dissolving its function
so what does remain?