Thorn Bleed

Prick.
That's what it does.
It pricks you.
Injects you.
These are not regular thorns;
They are, indeed, curse'd.
Each drop of blood that exhumes
Turns to a vile venom
That strips the skin
Like acid as it drips
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Slithering down like a snake.
The strong one becomes weak,
And the weak become mull'd o'er
And the heart starts to slow,
The eyes burn and boil'd,
Blind'd by the venoms toxicity
And damage'd nervous system.
Sudden, the sights turn black,
All sound be gone.
The thorn of the Whiteberry
Is what poison'd you now.
Your insides fester and whither
Into a vile paste of white,
Draining you into the sewers.