by Vaughn Neeld

Ancient bricks peek through
green and purple vines,
whose tumble of red-hearted blossoms
cascade in a riot of unruly tangles
that smother the foundation.

Nearby, dark windows glower, frown,
like a stern woman reprimanding
her riotous neighbors.

The rebellious blossoms care not.
They open generous mouths to expel
their hedonistic scent to wantonly entice
the innocent to come, to linger, to caress
their velvet curves.


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