by Nick Gisburne
The dream believers breathe a sacred word,
Three children, sick, submissive, on their knees,
But, long before the creature’s hiss is heard,
The souls within their broken bodies freeze.
The sacrifice was destined for this day.
Their mothers mourn, but they, tonight, will die.
The priest kings, called to rip their hearts away,
Convince them not to question, not to cry.
Metallic tendrils slip inside the cave,
Towards what they were synthesised to seek.
The smallest boy, bewilderingly brave,
Proclaims that he will fight, however weak.
But this is why we swarm, we search, we swim.
The others do not matter. Only him.
