by Nick Gisburne
Her pity is too sickening to show
It undermines the violence, the crime
She witnesses the ritual, the flow
As innocence is killed before its time
She wonders just how many she could save
And finds a figure: not a single soul
The bodies of the fearful and the brave
Are victims of another’s cold control
Her lover, with a modest, measured tone
Encourages the impetus she needs
To furnish him with muscle, blood and bone
Purveyor of the flesh on which he feeds
Behind her perfect portrait, smooth, serene
The madness of the man is never seen
