Vines of thorns thread their way through my flesh,

Tearing me within and without.

I can feel my veins hate me,

So they shred themselves apart,

This paradox is twisting its way around my throat,

The spikes silently sliding into my arteries,

The vines pushing their way through my feet,

From this snare I cannot run.

Quietly I wait for the parasite to find its way to my broken eyes,

A fractured face grimacing back at me in the water,

Devoid of the blood that dilutes feeling...

All I feel is wet and pain.

Vines are slowly turning red,

And purple,

I can taste the blue squeezing over my pleading lips.

Severed fingers reach out to the roiling waters,

Taking in as the sting takes hold,

Reaching for the knife lying at the bottom,

Before pale hands reach up, and pull me in by my face...

The roots have seemed to disappear.

Dust is floating at the surface of the water.