by Nick Gisburne
The streets are filled with life, but not our own.
What clings and climbs was never meant to be.
A moist, mutating parasite has grown,
A swiftly-spreading fungus, wild and free.
It thrives in darkness, flowers in the rain,
And multiplies with spores we cannot kill.
To touch it is to suffer from such pain
It violates the mind and saps the will.
As brick begins to crumble into dust,
Our bleak, beleaguered cities tumble down.
Defenceless, we discover with disgust
The genesis, pristine, untouched, a town.
The parasite protects it from our fate.
What nightmare did these criminals create?
