The vine pretends to be a tree,
It’s never straight, it’s never free.

It spreads its knotty crooked hands,
It grabs on everything it can.

It never can stand on its own,
It quickly withers if alone.

It craves for shelter and support,
The mimicry its only sport.

It creeps along its master’s bark
And leaves the saplings in the dark,

It steals the rain, it steals the light,
Parasitism its only plight.

It slowly chokes its witless host,
It kills the thing it needs the most.

It crumbles walls it creeps upon,
Instead of fruit it offers thorn.

It bends all living to its will,
It comes in slowly for a kill.

The vine can never be a star
It only glares from afar,

It only envies what it takes,
Its crooked stem is full of snakes.

It chokes, it crushes and resents
All that is strong, all that free-stands.

The vine pretends to be a tree
It’s never happy, never free.