by Nick Gisburne
A passion, planted centuries ago
Alive, its tangled tentacles unwind
The sickness stirs, a glimmering, a glow
A squalid surge, too monstrous for the mind
Unclean cadavers, stinking at her side
Are all the bitter nourishment she needs
A queen, a god, she crossed the deep divide
To live, to die, to spawn her sacred seeds
The universe knows nothing of her mate
But cowers to the Mother of Despair
The muscles of her bloated womb pulsate
A swarm of spores contaminates the air
Her children, born to endlessly consume
To spread, to spawn, a vast, voracious bloom
