by Nick Gisburne
Invading every timber of the ship
The spawn infect the vessel from within
The sailors, numb, are helpless in their grip
Appalled to watch them burrow into skin
They long for death, but feel them as they feed
Devouring flesh and sinew, blood and bone
Absorbing all the nourishment they need
They sleep at last, engorged and fully grown
Adrift upon the currents of the sea
The creatures, in their chrysalids, awake
On wings of gold, the butterflies break free
Impatient for the journey they must take
They soar among the clouds, to live, to breed
To find the flesh of men, on which to feed
