by Nick Gisburne
A fallen spectre, moaning with dismay
Displays the savage symptoms of disease
To hold its burning agonies at bay
He swallows potions, poisons, on his knees
No powder can alleviate the pain
No pill provides ethereal relief
The Book of Shade describes this cryptic strain
With loathing, in a language brusque and brief
With every fang and fibre of his ghost
He struggles, locked in torment, cursed, confused
What magnifies his mutilation most:
Regret for prophylactics never used
One cannot pleasure demons but ignore
The nauseating beasts they banged before
