Twisted vines around an upturn die,
The soft edges and sharp vines oh how they tangle around my cold surface,
And squeeze the spots that cannot be changed,
But seem to effortlessly contort into something different with each passing phase,
And within time the die (I) brush away from what was once a shelter of nature,
And confine myself with the serenity of peace and time,
Until the sun dries out the murky grass,
And the leaves from the large oak tree start to fall,
And again I am twisted in a shell of myself and of the people that I am pushing away,
And the die,
It rolls.
