Intentions strung upon my own
Waiting for the flowers to grow.
I dig and dig and dig and dig.
Not much time for thee to waste.
The roots they yowl beneath thy feet,
dragging surely more than any plain old dirt.
No, nothing ordinary about it.
Stones, bones, eerie tones.
Not the kind that ***** you.
Not the kind that **** you.
The kind that swears to never let you go.
The kind that invades your brain to morph you.
That will insidiously destroy you.
All the while you cry and plea.
Please don’t try to leave.