The Garden Of Veins

Once, there was a garden with roots so pure, Fed by rivers of sunlight, a soft allure. Each flower bloomed with a fragrance bright, In soil untouched by the shadowed night. But one day came a seed, a whispering vine, Promising blooms far more divine. Its tendrils wrapped around the trees, A honeyed poison riding the breeze. At first, it felt like a dream come true, The flowers shimmered with a dazzling hue. The fruits grew larger, sweet to taste, Every bite, a flash of endless grace. Yet underneath, the roots grew weak, The soil turned black, the air grew bleak. The garden, once vibrant and full of life, Began to wither, cut by an unseen knife. For every bloom that grew so tall, Another crumbled, began to fall. The vine’s embrace tightened its grip, Draining the earth with each tender sip. The garden swayed, its colors dimmed, The river once flowing now slowly thinned. No longer a place of vibrant light, It drowned in a shadow, consumed by night. But still, the vine whispered in soft refrain, “Just one more taste, ignore the pain.” The garden, once glorious, now lay in decay, A forest of ghosts where life slipped away. And so it was, the cost unseen, A paradise lost to a tempting dream.