Tentacle

Thar she gropes: Cast yer eyes on them fine appendages as they wrap suction cups around thee,
      suckin', puckerin', curlin', pullin', not quite squeezin' yet applyin' pressure all th' same.
        See what it hides within, its dwelling dour, so ye may know beyond doubt:
          that cage is nothin', 'tis but a luxury, a coincidental illusion
        to let ye get closer, fear forgotten, so it may complacently reach
                out between the rusty metal bars and innocently brush
                  yer curious face- arrrgh, careful now, the slime
                  drips a wee bit, it'll eat away after hundreds
              of years (or minutes) or so at yer fizzlin' skin
                      down to th' marrow of yer bones,
                          unless that's oozed out already,
                              drawn by that tantalizin' tyranny
                                    we all await with fear.
                                        Ah, jus' leave it be,
                                  tendril tentatively retreatin',
                                'Tis not fully ripe yet.
                            A slitherin' retraction into
                          some dark silhouette of
                              shiftin' endless forms
                                      hides behin' wisps
                                                  of sickly sweet
                                              human aroma, a
                                                  paralyzed shape left
                                                          standin' mute
                                                                        with
                                                                    desire.