by Nick Gisburne
He, the believer, caresses the stone
Plagued by its ancient, inscrutable runes
Matching the marks on a curious bone
Stolen by martyrs who taunted the moons
Brazenly breaching the Temple of Bliss
Incense and opium push with a pulse
Swimming and swarming, his senses dismiss
Spectres of space as they coil and convulse
Sealing the stone in the skin of a hand
Shatters its potent protection to dust
Dizzy, determined, he reaches the damned
Locked in a fever of deviant lust
Sulphurous nightmares, a sickening stink
Drunk at the disco, he spews in the sink
