by Nick Gisburne
Day or night, we monitor your mind.
Spies, we see the enemy you are.
Fragments of whatever filth we find,
Picked and plucked, are pickled in a jar.
Every swerving deviance of thought,
Every sin you stumble to conceal,
Adds another nuance. Our report
Leans beyond the lip of what is real.
Criminal, with wickedness you hum.
Murderous, a nature not in doubt.
Slipping in your shadow, we succumb.
Nothing now could ever pull us out.
Elegantly poisoned by your pain,
Tell us, are we traitors, or insane?
