Thistle & Vine

Ask not the thistle as it pricks,

of its intentions or its wish,

to pierce the skin,

to grow within,

engorge itself upon thy sin.

Questioning the cancer,

simply won't procure an answer,

as thistle comes to anchor,

and replace all you have been.

The numbing takes you over,

wicked vines begin to reach.

Twisting.

Turning.

Become the soil they shall breach.

As they encroach and swell and stretch,

Their tight embrace adorns your neck.

You wish for days before regret,

before the thistle and vine egress.

Your body has been taken,

not long now 'till all the rest.