Crawling up the cottage fence,
Your weeds entangle and ensnare,
Their pestilent intent resolute.
They wind tighter as I struggle
To tear down these tendrils of our heartstrings.
Dousing them in poison, pruning them
From every dank corner in which they thrive,
I thought for sure they would have died by now.
Perhaps survival of the fittest
Runs through the insidious blood
Of your thorn-heart.
Although the neighbors complain,
Spring looms down the lane,
And I remind them that when you bloom,
All magenta and vermillion,
We’ll call it wildflowers.
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