by Nick Gisburne
A creeping sickness saturates the air
With suffocating clouds of toxic smog.
We both become increasingly aware
That something else is with us in the fog.
Escape would be unthinkable, insane,
Without the isolation suits we stole.
These vapours quickly liquify the brain,
Yet here a shadow shuffles, black as coal.
Before we take another step, it stops,
And points towards a fault beneath the floor.
The gangway just beyond it twists and drops;
We’d find our deaths before we found the door.
The shadow takes a turning, dimly lit.
Surrendering our fear, we follow it.
