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.
What a chance this was, the chance for much more.

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.
But it wasn’t enough, whatever he got.
For greed had been planted beside her thin roots.
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.
For she would not grow without sacrifice.
Only pieces of him would ever suffice.
For her to keep growing, that was her price.
His smile would gleam at all of her shine.
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.
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?
Spend them he never, and stayed home forever.
Loved ones he severed, (he thought himself clever).
He murmured and pet, each golden rosette.
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.
Her vine slurped his life like nectar to birds, and he lay in the room, his body submerged.
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 had to cut, to cull, and to bleed.
For her to keep growing that was the creed.