The Tree, the Vine, and the Ant, Pt. Four

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It is the stable soil, rich to the bedrock
that contains the heavy roots of a past,
my past, which is darker than the fertile earth
in which those memories are buried.
Those anchors are damp from tears cried so long ago,
yet they allow us to weave tall dreams
and direct my spine straightly skyward.
We are fed nutrients provided skeletons sleeping beneath our beams,
their offerings monitored by the endless stream
of peace-keeping ants, keeping them all in line.
You cannot touch those corrupt anchors,
my dear sweet vine.
Remain unsoiled by their muddy handprints
that never quite seem to fade from my once-glistening exterior.
You are in every way above them.

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