by Nick Gisburne
A thousand pearls are pressed beneath the earth
Between the sacred cycles of the moon
The soul inside each seed believes its birth
Is destined for the heat, the height, of noon
But in the perfect pocket of its shell
The source of something sinister awakes
Its twisting tendrils split, and spread, and swell
And, grown too far, too soon, its prison breaks
The deviant, a greedy parasite
Ingests the weak, each helpless, pristine pearl
And long before the dawn can lend its light
Upon this field of treason stands a girl
What schemes her mind may gather, grasp and grow
An unsuspecting world will quickly know
