Roots I

In a town dull and horrid,
In a house rotting and bloated,
Lived a man of no great worth.
Picture perfectly deep-rooted.
He lived his life within these same few walls,
Screaming in anger for them all to fall.
He would attempt to leave many times before the light touched his skin at all.
But it’s sad to say he was rooted to the dirt.
Roots made of flesh and bark ripping from this poor introvert.
They tore through the floorboards and sank into the earth,
Pulling him down into a type of reverse birth.
They pulled his organs down, his blood came too.
When the roots looked for his spine they found there to be nothing of value.
And so he went from man to mush.
Pulled in by roots, down to what I am sure hell constitutes.
With only an eye left to see, he breathed no more as he had no lungs free.
The roots had consumed him in this prison—His home.
And put all the pieces down below it all alone.

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