Cataclysmic Lullaby

A pricker vine wraps round my heart
Squeezing and piercing the pulsating mass.
Blood seeps from sorrow's wounds,
Black and impure with hate and fear.

The well within boils to screaming steam
Expanding this darkened prison of muscle,
Urging the sharp barbs deeper still
Into the oblivion of pain and savagery.

And here I languish lost and forlorn
Wallowing in a grave of my own decrepitude.
If only I were not such a bloody coward
And could but split these veins of torture.

Is it possible to banish this morbidity?
Would it flow from me with my tainted blood,
Or is this infestation rooted deeper still?
Is my very soul the source of this decadence?

But now the penetrating thorns drip acid,
Dissolving the diseased and rotting flesh;
It decomposes the slow beating sinew
Until nothing but a desolate void remains.

It is already too late.