Down in the Dark

A Poem by ColdSpiral

Screeching of ires, not tyres, the rages of the soul are a cacophonic choir who whisper in the night to the souls of the fighters, those who never got their chance at retreat and stay here in pandemonium’s tranquil cabinet, locked in the dark with the booze and old socks, hatred accumulated like dust bunnies roving among the shoes and snatching the unwary fighters as they stagger past in the dark. We cannot tell from here how the saturation will affect them – they don’t appear to care for such things but they love their potatoes and roast them on fires of torn-up cardboard. Who knows what carnal drive has enticed them to live such a life, a parody, down here in the dark with Prometheus’ teeth.