by Nick Gisburne
They feed us on the swill from Hangar Five,
Contaminations coating every share,
Enough to keep their specimens alive,
Until our brittle bodies split and tear.
They say the spores inside us are unique,
An organism flawless by design,
But we, the nameless numb, unwilling, weak,
Are cattle, queued for slaughter, line by line.
The harvest, something precious, something pure,
Will save the world, they tell us, save us all.
But killing us to cultivate a cure
Is one more step towards the day we fall.
Emotionless, advancing down the racks,
Physicians scrape the serum from our backs.
