by Nick Gisburne
She hungers for the torso to return.
The stink of it, the ripening, the rot,
Ignites a craving, bright enough to burn,
An appetite this feeble world forgot.
The shadow-cast of cancer soils the skin
With patterns of perversity and pain,
A body sliced by swords of steel so thin
They damned it to the deepest, dark domain.
And yet, the scraps and slivers of the corpse,
Collected, claimed, by devious design,
Are bound by septic sorcery she warps
To resurrect a soul from slaughter - mine.
Her painted smile is poison, laced with pride.
For her this world will burn - my love, my bride.
