by Nick Gisburne
A cyst, a septic sore inside her throat,
Expands, divides, and tunnels, out and in,
A raw, infected rash of bleeding bloat,
Excruciating splits of swollen skin.
As tendrils of decay consume the flesh,
Her face congeals, a black amorphous mass,
But somehow, still, her sight is spared, still fresh,
As if to witness what will come to pass.
Disease destroys the chest, the lungs, the heart.
It slithers to the surface, creamy, thick.
Malignant meat, her body, pulled apart,
Erupts with swarming cancers, surging, sick.
At last, in waves of agony, she cries,
As death delivers darkness to her eyes.
