by Nick Gisburne
We raise her cell, from countless in the sea
A slime-encrusted prison, and a bomb
The one who draws the shorter straw is me
Reluctantly, I touch the intercom
Though fifty years have passed beyond her crime
That voice. Electric. Colder than the tape
We need her. We are helpless, out of time
We bring a deal, an offer, an escape
The chemical conspiracy she laid
Has finally mutated to a threat
If she will help us build a barricade
The planet will not suffocate, not yet
The mother of a suicidal sect
Just laughs. Of course. What else could we expect?
