by Nick Gisburne
They see the rising menace of the plague
And fear for what mutations may emerge
But pledges made to face the fight are vague
Too late, too few, to counter such a surge
The sickness plays its final, fatal hand
It stains the sky, infecting every cloud
Relentless in its hunger to expand
It weaves a cloak of death, a swirling shroud
The sunlight, smothered, strangled, shines no more
And swarming spores of sickness fall as rain
They ravage every creature to its core
Each nerve a naked thread of blazing pain
The sickness fades and only death remains
And on this empty planet silence reigns
