The Passion Flower Poem by Mark Heathcote

She wore a leafy sash, still treasuring
The Passion Flower, which entwined her heart
It bore-fruit of the vine, long-festering
Deeply did its memory, it's sharpened dart-
Cut her daily, and still bleeds fresh pricked blood
It waxes and wanes and tears of agony flood.

She wore a leafy sash, that's withering
Across her bosom, hoping a blossom
Rancid-white will open, be slithering
Worm it's way back into her, lost gardens
How any pain raw is sadly prolonging
Each day, when the new sun comes gawking.

She wore a leafy sash cobweb gathered
And look to the moon for some bleak solace
It's here in those purple shadows, tankard
Drunk to her heart's content she sees garnets
Seeds of red pomegranate but none like you
Grow in her heart and leave its residue.