Like the first time
your blood
turned to treacle

Breath eluding the grab
lethargy kick-starts
to nothing but tired

Like when you found
that your arms
wouldn’t move

and your legs
had grown roots
of concrete and granite

How did you come
to this place?
Where your will meets resistance

of muscles
of tendons
and sinewy pieces

fighting to hold you
in place
and unmoving

Are we statues showing nought
but the facade
and cold frontage

All sugary sweetness
on surface
but darker within?

We treacle-blood people
slowing
congealing

We treacle-tart takers
encased in
our skin

[In response to the prompt: “treacle” from Ruth]