by Nick Gisburne
Reclining, wrapped in sacred, scarlet silk,
And feasting on a sliver of the moon,
The Mother of Creation pumps her milk
Through filthy tubes, to feed the foul cocoon.
Pristine, a precious infant sleeps inside,
The diabolic daughter she designed,
But sinister, insane infections hide.
Awakened snakes maliciously unwind.
They twist around the arteries, the veins,
And every nascent muscle of her form,
But, when they try to trap her in their chains,
A witch’s glass reveals them as they swarm.
They die, before the universe is torn,
Before the child, Infinity, is born.
