by Nick Gisburne
The fugitives, the sacrificial scum,
The stupid slaves we starved and whipped for work,
Were bait, the spineless harvest of a slum.
Beyond detection, distant, dark, we lurk.
You failed to see the souls who came to warn
Of what your world should fear, of what we planned.
They die, but they were never truly born.
Your species is too slow to understand.
A single seed, from any of the dead,
Will swell, and soon, inevitably, burst.
Infected, watch your fevered flesh be bled.
Surrender, as we feed on these, the first.
A pity you are far too weak to fight,
A poor, pathetic people, wiped from sight.
