by Nick Gisburne
A thousand faces, captive in the walls
Release a word, a whisper, to the night
Its pressure fills the labyrinthine halls
And calls the heathen princess into sight
A twisted rose, a bloom of blood and bone
Is tethered to an altar of decay
She quivers on the consecrated stone
An offering, a penitent display
The whispers, at crescendo, disappear
A crushing silence crouches in their place
The woman, without feeling, without fear
In death becomes a conduit to space
An evil, far beyond the mortal mind
Descends to suck the souls of humankind
