A Monster Lurks in the Glasshouse
The creature hides where sunlight streams through panes,
Its tendrils creeping through the humid air.
What once was nurtured now grows unrestrained,
Twisting the space meant for blossoms fair.
No gentle sprout, but something darkly fed,
Its roots now cracking terracotta pots.
The gardener’s shears lie rusted, cold, and dead—
This beast demands what tender care forgot.
The glass still shines like morning’s fragile grace,
But shadows tell of hunger left unchecked.
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