by Nick Gisburne
Behind the peeling paper, in the brick,
Within the walls, the chrysalids uncurl.
A jolt of acid blood, fervescent, thick,
Reanimates their hearts, each pulsing pearl.
The layers, folds of leather, stretch and split.
Their fleshy fibres, sweet, are soon consumed.
The creatures, as their sinews knot and knit,
Emerge, a dormant evil, roused, resumed.
In every city, walls of dust, destroyed,
Foreshadowing what happened once before:
A parasite a reckless race employed
To purify this world, and thousands more.
Though never meant to rise again, they breed,
And, hunting every hint of life, they feed.
