by Nick Gisburne
He waits, beyond your darkest dreams of pain,
To feed you, in his plague-polluted cave,
To nurture mould and maggots in your brain,
To fill your throat with gristle from his grave.
He wants you, every sliver, every slice.
In you, his plans, his progeny, will grow.
Your death will be particular, precise,
Your suffering a raw, relentless flow.
Voracious worms, a slimy, septic breed,
Will burst from every scab-encrusted sore.
He chose you for the innocence you bleed,
A purity too perfect to ignore.
A sacrifice, to violate, to shame,
He waits to watch you die, to call your name.
