Passifloras (vines)

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.

The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,

Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking off premises

Of tangles meant to last a day, and yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too closely.

Knowing your tactful agreement, and who among the variant musicians it pleases

All I ask of consciousness. Embargoed by ease, rebellion perhaps, despite the darkening

In the floorboards, look to wine and worlds for inspiration, attitudes to our science darkening,
Where human bodies grow in the same way, as rope molding frames a converted farmhouse. 
In intimation of the troubles ahead, and with the moth wings composed, once again it pleases
Our notions of them, all clearly perishing; heavy hammers penetrating ever deeper to its fluid form,
Your bright shadow once again grasping at the corner of another memory, and watching closely
For someone catching, if not, then unobtrusive, upright, and honest. Not comely, the premises 

Observed, your sad morning face caught between the shafts...