by Nick Gisburne
She stands before the Senate, naked, numb,
A traitor by her own admission, damned.
A figurehead, her failure has become
A spectacle. The treason courts were crammed.
Gratuitous, her honour guard’s salute
Is meant to mock the murderer he served.
The brutal scars she hid beneath her suit,
Revealed, reflect what made them, crooked, curved.
She kneels before the President Elect,
Who gloats, and, with revulsion, spiteful, spits.
But seven months of madness resurrect
A force with which his fleshy torso splits.
The blade of bone she wrestles from her chest
Reveals his weakness. Hatred does the rest.
