Golden Gold Vine Poem- The Plated Prisoner

There was a miser who prized her,

this golden gold vine.

This sapling so gilded,

her leaflings did shine.

The moment he saw her,

he let out a whisper of, “mine.”

He’d found her in rubble,

along a plain road.

Unburied, he took her,

in pocket he stowed.

Back to his house,

where he stared at her gleam.

Hands curled to covet,

want stitched to seam.

What a chance this was,

the chance for much more.

So he planted her there,

right outside his front door.

Kept under secrets and hidden she lay.

This old miser did find her,

did steal her away.

Brought to the yard,

he planted her there.

Fenced her all in

to shelter her glare.

Soon she grew tiny buds,

glinting with gold.

He plucked them by one,

went to town to be sold.

He paid off his debts,

bought whatever he sought.

But it wasn’t enough,

whatever he got.

For greed had been planted

beside her thin roots.

Want had leafed out,

along with her shoots.

Yet although he watered,

soon she did wilt.

Her golden did dull

and worry he split.

For his most prized possession

looked right to be culled.

She wasted away,

while he fretted and mulled.

It wasn’t til so angry,

he pulled out his hair.

Brown clumps all fallen

on the vine bare,

that her color suddenly glistened,

her vine did then surge.

She grew ever much

from his body he’d purged.

Ecstatic, he knew, what he must do.

So this miser clip-clipped,

and gold flowers then bloomed.

His hair he snip=snipped,

gladly shedding his plume.

For she would not grow

without sacrifice.

Only pieces of him

would ever suffice.

For her to keep growing,

that was her price.

This golden gold vine

was the miser’s own vice.

This miser did prize her,

this golden gold vine.

His smile would gleam

at all of her shine.

He gave her his all,

so she’d answer his call.

Rejoiced every inch

that her length grew up tall.

But soon she outgrew

his garden, until,

she then made her way

into his house on the hill.

She twisted and curled

in every inch.

No room to move,

he was prodded and pinched.

He shoved out his furniture

to be left in the rain,

abandoned front door,

knocked out window panes.

Every offering he made,

she grew larger still.

Her metallic glint covered

each floorboard and sill.

This miser hoarded

every petal and thorn.

Skin marred with scratches

where sharp barbs had torn.

When his hair was all gone,

but he still wanted more,

he gave up his nails,

taking them, peel from core.

He presented them all,

onto stems he did pour.

Not once did he ask,

what’s it all for?

Her flowers, so pretty,

grew heavy with gold.

Though his fingers too sore

to take them to hold.

So he split them away

by the work of his teeth.

Bit them from vine

and hid them in sheaths.

All gathered, so heavy,

hundreds of blooms.

All golden, these flowers,

but he ran out of room.

The old miser didn’t dare

every take some to town.

If they knew of his treasure,

they’d surely come ’round.

So spend them he never,

and stayed home forever.

Loved ones he severed,

(he thought himself clever).

He murmured and pet,

each golden rosette.

Her vine he let twine,

all while whispering, “mine.”

But without reparation,

she’d quickly go dim,

so frantic, he’s cut,

blade into limb.

When his nails were all gone,

from ten fingers and toes,

he had to give up

his ears and his nose.

The blood that he split,

he staunched with petals of guilt.

But the drips of his red

made the vine rightly fed.

This miser bled freely

so his wealth may yet grow.

He let veins collapse,

let his heartbeat go slow.

Her vine slurped his life

like nectar to birds,

and he lay in the room,

his body submerged.

While she grew out of the house

and over the hill,

a contagion that caught

every space up to fill.

But he wanted still,

he had to have more,

so out plucked his eyes,

sockets empty and sore.

He had no room to sleep,

and no eyes to weep,

but from his golden gold vine,

ever more would he seek.

Oh, this miser did prize her,

this golden gold vine.

He couldn’t stop now,

so he sat at her shrine.

He had to cut, to cull, and to bleed.

For her to keep growing that was the creed.

Whenever he plucked

her vine until bare,

he’d sit by her stems,

into skin he would tear.

Losing himself, as he said and he flayed.

Yielding himself, as he laid in her shade.

He soon gave up his toes, his fingers, mere stumps.

His teeth, he yanked out, in white and red clumps.

Dropped into soil,

like rain for her roots.

Up grew her blossoms,

inedible fruits.

The gold was his blanket,

his prize, and his gloat.

The thorns for his teeth,

the leaves as his coat.

He took what she made,

and reaped what she sowed.

Addicted entitled, thinking–

wealth he was owed.

But bitter her roots

become as she bloomed.

This golden gold vine,

resented and fumed.

So blinded by gleam,

he just couldn’t see

what he became

by demands he decreed.

When he first found her

along that plain road,

he didn’t yet know

what he picked when he trode.

For it wasn’t just her

that he took on that day.

Greed was the weed

he invited to stay.

In his house the gold took up all the room.

He thought it a triumph. (But it was a tomb.)

Tangled and knitted,

every corner, leaves spewed.

Still, he wanted more

–Oh! Just a few!

No hair or nails, no eyes or nose.

No fingers or ears, nor any toes.

Yet he’d satisfy himself with his own greedy prose.

He was the richest alive! Anything he could buy!

(Yes, it was true, that wasn’t a lie.)

Though he did not realize, no he could not conceive,

that his obsession for gold was what made him unweave.

The old miser lived on,

a sorry state of affairs.

Sacrificing his tongue,

his legs, arms– both in pairs.

He couldn’t touch or talk, nor could he see.

But what did that matter, when what mattered was he

was alone with his vine, his treasure sublime.

No need for his senses or to walk or to sign,

when all that he wanted was her opulent shine.

And all the while, this old miser clung to the vine.

His muted mouth empty, but still miming, “mine.”

The vine did outgrow his little house on the hill.

Winding down to the forest, all twine and twill.

She’d grown so large, while he’d withered down to a pulp.

Until finally, she took the last of him, in one final gulp.

He stumped and stubbed pieces,

now taken inside her.

This golden gold greed,

like a web from a spider.

And upon his death,

the vine did slowly die back.

It shrunk from forest to yard,

its gold gone to lack.

The only but that remained,

on that house on the hill

was a flicker of gleam

against a cracked windowsill.

And there right beneath,

under a pile of rubble,

was one golden vine,

its short thorns like stubble.

It glistened and shone,

so small with one leaf.

It sat there, undiscovered,

a prize for a thief.

This vine as golden as a small piece of sun,

it waited right there for someone to come.

And when someone did, (for there would always be one)

she perked up and straightened,

she showed off her shine.

And he stole and he smiled,

and whispered greedily, “mine.”

This poem is by Raven Kennedy, author of The Plated Prisoner series.

This one poem spans across the end of 3 books and I couldn’t find the whole thing anywhere else. So, I decided to type it out here for myself and others to read.

The Plated Prisoner Book Reviews So Far:

Raven Kennedy’s Website | Recommend a Book for Me to Review

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