Forged in fire
his tainted smile
carved by deft hands of deceit.
Along this narrow passage
the walls fold in.
He lurks at the end
But a blank face
But a pair of hunched shoulders.
We know of his
cold,
dead,
eyes.
We feel his pull
like burning chains
lodged under our ribs,
reminding us of our fragility
as we break
like a dying tree.
Flaked away has our innocence
for right before our bloodshot irises
are the twisted, tarnished roots of the thorns
that seek to uproot us,
snake around our ankles,
and rub our flesh to raw crimson
as they drag us into their jaws of crushing teeth.
A flood of acid,
eating at our spines,
warping our faces
beyond the point of recognition.
And then they break us.