by Nick Gisburne
Dismissive of the danger and the pain,
He yearns to take the chance, to feel the sting.
At first the tubes and tendrils only drain,
But soon they pump contagions from the king.
The deviance of intravenous vice
Is more than broken whispers can convey.
He cannot comprehend the fever’s price,
But arrogance and wonder seize the day.
He soaks the flow of tortured regal dreams,
The horror and the hate his king expels.
Believing he can suffer such extremes,
He shudders as his mortal body swells.
The king awakes beside him, cleansed, renewed,
And pulls apart the man’s remains, his food.
