by Nick Gisburne
She shifts the hood to mingle with the crowd
Instinctively, she follows where they lead
The catwalk takes their feet from cloud to cloud
Disciples, in the garments of their creed
The rabid, rhythmic chanting of the priest
Possesses every pilgrim, young and old
A storm of hate, ignited and released
And he, its prophet, garlanded in gold
She knows the frozen deserts of his home
The pious priest, who burned a thousand ships
She tracked him to this world, this lavish dome
And marvels as the poison paints his lips
How easily he bends them to his will
Her son, who she has come so far to kill
