In the quiet of my sanctuary, where the green whispers low,
my plants hum a secret, a sinister show.
They shiver in thirst, beckoning for a taste,
of the crimson that spills in no haste.
One spoke in a murmur, under twilight’s cloak,
“They’re watching,” it said, and my reality broke.
A prick of my thumb, a sacrifice small,
to the soil I feed, answering the call.
The leaves sway and dance, as the vines spell out “danger,”
in the sapling scripts of a leafy harbinger.
I give more than droplets; I give them my streams,
in the bloodied communion, they share their dreams.
They grow under my care, fed with my own life’s river,
entwining my soul, in the chill they deliver.
Each cut, each offering, a pact deeply cast,
in the roots of my guardians, in shadows they’ve amassed.
Listening close as they breathe in the light,
revealing the secrets of the day and the night.
Are they just plants, or sentinels old,
guarding their keeper, bold and cold?
As I bleed for their whispers, and heed their sight,
I wonder who watches from the window at night.
So I’ll keep feeding the hunger, their appetite keen,
as they morph into something fierce, unseen.
For in their growth lies both threat and grace,
in the whispering leaves, I find my place.