by Nick Gisburne
He never sought the sickness, never chose;
The young must fight, wherever they are found,
But Jonathan, a child of demons, knows
He cannot bear the sacrifice, the sound.
The taste of blood, relentlessly reviled.
The ashes of the wicked, on the wind.
Stampeding, screaming sinners, drugged, defiled,
Dismembered as their slaughtered souls are skinned.
Escaping through forbidden doorways, dreams,
He crawls towards an ever-brighter light.
Each tunnel, through the tides of torment, seems
More welcoming, more wondrous, than the night.
The final gate. The point of no return.
A trap. He falls. Forever, he will burn.
