by Nick Gisburne
The ghost engulfs her, seeking what it needs,
That piece of purest evil locked within,
But ragged, raw enigmas, fiendish seeds,
Defend the darkness buried in her skin.
Dividing, they infest the spectre’s soul,
Examining the essence of the threat.
With speed, with stealth, they merge, divide, control,
But do not crack the core of it, not yet.
Oblivious, the phantom finds its prize,
A spinning splinter, blackest, burning hate.
With hunger, lust, it looks with eager eyes,
But now her seeds, at last, no longer wait.
Convicted by the folly of its greed,
The ghost is smashed, enslaved, each piece a seed.
