by Nick Gisburne
He spills the seed from which his evil grows.
The rumours, and their roots, are dense and dark.
A swarm of tainted tendrils, twisting, flows,
To smother and subvert another mark.
His flowers are a poisonous deceit,
A glamorous seduction of the soul.
The scent of his deception, sharp and sweet,
Beguiles the mind with criminal control.
Each loathsome lie he plants, each lethal weed,
Each cold, corrupted, strangulating vine,
Enslaves a feeble heart, with which to breed,
Contaminated, crippled, by design.
A fertile garden, glorious and green,
Conceals his true intentions, sick, obscene.
