by Nick Gisburne
She digs beneath the Underworld, below
The rancid, rotting layers of the dead
Through seams of ash, diseased organic snow
Towards the Source, the secret, she is led
Mysterious foundations, seamless stones
An interlocking puzzle, sliced and set
Were once a bed, a base, for ancient bones
The slaughtered souls its makers never met
A fault, a crack, the signature she seeks
Identifies the boundary beyond
The Source, of which forbidden scripture speaks
Is bound by fate, by evil, to respond
She finds a creature time and truth defiled
The pure and perfect hatred of a child
