by Nick Gisburne
The waters, thick with murmurs of the dead,
Divided by the blade beneath our boat,
Relent, relax, to guide us as they spread,
Towards the ring of rocks, Perdition’s Throat.
The false messiah hides herself within,
And we, the slain apostles, seek her scent,
A musk, a cold corruption of the skin
She killed a thousand fathers to ferment.
The devil at the centre of the ring
Despairs to see the scarlet of our sails.
To nothing more than madness can she cling,
A creature, crying, scratching at her scales.
We take her head, to barter for a wish,
But throw her bones and body to the fish.
