by Nick Gisburne
The prison transport swings around the sun
Malicious codes unlock each metal cage
The mutineers may think their work is done
But deep, defensive instruments engage
Such deviance disturbs the status quo
Insurgency demands a swift response
Reflectors, pulled from service, burn and blow
As every switch and system fails at once
The shutters, sealed for safety, all retreat
And every inmate cowers in despair
A lethal tide of devastating heat
Consumes the tortured fabric of the air
The tomb of Prison Transport Delta-Eight
A spiteful, savage symbol of the state
