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]
