by Nick Gisburne
Pariah’s Gate, the seventh of the Six,
The hole through which no rebel may return,
Delivers death beyond its bloody bricks.
For some it is a fate for which they yearn.
Approaching it, unchallenged, I believe
Salvation lies before me, not behind.
The city, manufactured to deceive,
For misfits such as me was not designed.
Oppressive heat. It creeps around the cracks.
A sliver of reluctance. Is it fear?
But others dragged the burden on their backs.
I will not bend. My destiny is clear.
The Gate receives another pilgrim. Me.
No madness could imagine what I see.
