The Passion Flower

She wore a leafy sash, still treasuring The Passion Flower, which entwined her heart It bore-fruit of the vine, long-festering Deeply did its memory, it's sharpened dart- Cut her daily, and still bleeds fresh pricked blood It waxes and wanes and tears of agony flood. She wore a leafy sash, that's withering Across her bosom, hoping a blossom Rancid-white will open, be slithering Worm it's way back into her, lost gardens How any pain raw is sadly prolonging Each day, when the new sun comes gawking. She wore a leafy sash cobweb gathered And look to the moon for some bleak solace It's here in those purple shadows, tankard Drunk to her heart's content she sees garnets Seeds of red pomegranate but none like you Grow in her heart and leave its residue.