Thar she gropes: Cast yer eyes on them fine appendages as they wrap suction cups around thee,
suckin', puckerin', curlin', pullin', not quite squeezin' yet applyin' pressure all th' same.
See what it hides within, its dwelling dour, so ye may know beyond doubt:
that cage is nothin', 'tis but a luxury, a coincidental illusion
to let ye get closer, fear forgotten, so it may complacently reach
out between the rusty metal bars and innocently brush
yer curious face- arrrgh, careful now, the slime
drips a wee bit, it'll eat away after hundreds
of years (or minutes) or so at yer fizzlin' skin
down to th' marrow of yer bones,
unless that's oozed out already,
drawn by that tantalizin' tyranny
we all await with fear.
Ah, jus' leave it be,
tendril tentatively retreatin',
'Tis not fully ripe yet.
A slitherin' retraction into
some dark silhouette of
shiftin' endless forms
hides behin' wisps
of sickly sweet
human aroma, a
paralyzed shape left
standin' mute
with
desire.
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