Limp, you wounded animal.
You thrash to dislodge the thorn between your shoulder blades; driving it deeper into freshly split skin.
A sheen of warm blood mats into slick fur.
You whimper for help, but there is no one there to ease the pain. The pest burrows itself through another layer.
A weak and wounded animal,
You lay in a bed of moss
Amongst a lush oasis of green.
Quietly tucked beneath a canopy of ferns you cry for your mother;
The most primal thing a creature could do in its final moments of life.
Pain overcomes you, gentle creature.
Let your eyes shut in an ethereal haze.
Rest amongst the scene with your maker, who waves a tuft of hair in idle triumph.
And when some other strange friend or foe comes along to feed on your flesh
Or pick at your bones
May they mind the thorns.
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