The vines of silent rage
Crawl up our hearts
And ripe and age
Into blood red grapes
Of cold icy hatred
At one who we cherished
And loved so deeply,
But the unspoken language
Spoken through
Cold stares and neglect
And contorted control
Of our anger's quiver
Will melt into the calmness
Of the coldness of our hearts,
Leaving behind red grapes
And putrid memories
Of long gone elation.
