A vine crept through the cracks in stone,
Soft hands in thorns,yet not my own.
It drank from rain I never poured,
Bloomed in silence I never adored.

I clung like dusk to weary light,
A shadow that kissed me every night.
Its voice ,a rustle in my flame,
Calling me gently by no name.

I built my walls of glass and steel,
Yet still in taught the stone to feel.
A wildflower in my ordered maze,
Lit wildfires in my quite days.

It wrote its verses on my skin,
lines I never let begin.
An still sang in every breath-
A haunting hymn too soft for death.

I never sowed,I never fed,
Yet love bloomed where logic bled.
And now I walk with roots entwined.
By a garden I dared not find.