I dreamt I was an oak, sturdy and tall.
My branches climbing high to meet the sun,
and you, a spindly vine, utterly sprawled
across my boughs, my finger twigs, my trunk.
Your leaves invading space, competing life.
Green coils on my bark were pressing tight;
they cut in deep like the dullest knife.
You crept along my limbs, stealing my light.
A struggling oak, not wanting to give up,
grew tired of my fight, living was tough.
The tendrils grip and choking was too much.
Leaves dried, leaves fell. The light itself was snuffed.
Beyond my death you cling onto my frame,
keep stealing light whilst never feeling shame.