by Nick Gisburne
Through twisted pipes of scalding steel, we suck
Tormented souls, the wicked ones, our prey,
And, sifting through this necromantic muck,
We dig for diamonds, colours in the clay.
The multitudes of Hell, convicted, cursed,
Are dross, to be delivered to the flame,
But sometimes, in the sludge, among the worst,
We spy a secret, something not the same:
A spirit from that sickly, sterile place,
Evicted, by a prophet in our pay.
The colours burn so brightly in its face,
A tiny, trembling toy, with which we play.
Abducted from its bright, eternal bliss,
An angel even God will never miss.
