by Nick Gisburne
Her seeds begat the weeds with which we choke,
But she was not the mistress of our fate.
A parasite within her womb awoke,
And, through its thick, delicious membranes, ate.
She dreamed, with sweet, euphoric, dazed delight,
As every spore within her body grew.
The pleasures of the morning, pains at night,
Were symptoms of the sickness fighting through.
The moment she believed and grieved, at last,
The surrogate, the sacrificial space,
Was when she felt them gathering, to blast
Their poisonous perversions from her face.
Erupting with a pulse through every pore,
The death of what she was began the war.
