AN: So, the format is not how is is supposed to be originally. But whatever. Tired of messing with it. I wrote this for English class in high school. Just found it in my pile o' stuff.


Night by night the vines would wait for the sun, its sparkling son.
Sunshine on a vine maze, radiating it's flawed symmetry.
The twists and turns,
The briery and pricks,
The smooth and stripped.
The structured vines overbearing, demanding attention.
The buds, never blooming, with held by the jealous thorns.
All entwined in the thorny vine maze.

The solemn son, the o' so spectrum son.
In the corner of the maze he would sit by the vines.
The watch and stare,
To fear and glare,
To ponder and wonder.
The voiceless son blinking in the shadows.
The young mind ever turning for those thorns.
Understanding the pain, hate, love and joy there.

The sky turns black one calm day, turning the quiet volume to blaring.
Somber clouds made way far the perilous storm.
The flashes and booms,
The crackles and snares,
The howls and whispers.
The wind screaming its fury and hate.
The maifestation blocking out warmth and kindness.
Making way for a solace in the night.

The child, that forlorn child had no where to run.
Attacked from every angle, the child could do nothing against its strength.
Pushing and pulling,
Yanking and shoving,
Moving and crashing.
The boy stayed close to the ground, hoping it would calm the storm.
Tiny fingers soon found a root, a soft and delicate root such he had never known before.
His fingers clasped and he clung for his life.

Those thorny vines in the maze watched with cold attchment.
Ah, its solemn son, its o' so spectrum son.
The ripping and tearing,
The breaking and snapping,
The torture and pain.
Its root heart beat with the truth only it knew.
Beat with the only option it knew.
All for its one and only friend, creator, and child.

The thorny vines moved in motions it never wished to complete, but knew it must.
They gripped tiny hands and pulled the child to them.
Cracking,
Tearing,
Suffocating.
The golden child understood what the vines, those o' so thorny vines, were doing.
The voiceless son, screamed, screamed, screamed until he fond his voice.
But the thorns could not hear, the task it set to do already complete.

The thorny vine's perfect perfidy released the child in that night.
Turning its healthy green strands to a dark, dark brown.
The storm raged,
Raged,
Raged.
By light of dawn, the wind and dark were tossed aside.
Ending its un-invoked slaughter with the thorny vines.
Finally letting sunlight on the face of a brilliant young boy still trapped within his
cage.

Losing strength, the thorny vines gave way, dropping the child to the ground.
Letting its only child and master stretch his wings.
To fly free,
To think free,
To be free.
The boy flew up and up to reach the bright morning sky, never to look back.
The vines! The now thorn-less vines had save him from his black old live.
To give him a new and better one, where thorns were dead and the buds bloomed.