Dungeon Trade… Poem by Merlin Mwaura

There are places disgust abound,
Filth an’ froth plainly in sight,
Sneer scents an’ concoctions
Wrought in both foul and file smell,
A word spoken cannot receive better ears,
Than swine an’ hound provide
Under desolate an’ tattered street.

To haunt like a bad dream,
Savor the fear lay within,
Taunt an’ torment,
Tear desperately at fresh,
Stain in blood by the tarmac,
A pool collects of tears doom…
A life,
Breath,
Forgotten,
Like a another story tell,
And end.

Here demon an’ death,
Place on auction the souls of men,
They that are fallen,
Drowned as they may in sin,
Vile an’ atrocious deeds,
Bargain of an arm, a leg, the eyes…
“the ears are mine! ! ! ! ”
the howling says,
“better not he hear the gospel”
Lest they find no meat,
Go to hell hungry,
Not here though,
There is always something to take back,
To the simmering an’ flaking,
Till once a noble soul,
Is consume by the products of evil mind.
Forever the life seems to give an’ take,
An’ they take some more,
Souvenirs you would think,
To appease whatever master they wish please,
To contain no further,
Their freedom to choose.

Tis a trade of the damned,
Cost they shall, crave and quake for one,
As timid an’ naïve of the soul,
To know there is a God after all,
An’ choose the righteous path to heaven promise,
Than live among the claws of decayed galls,
Watch one turn from whole to pieces,
Bathing in the blood of the weak or helpless,
A callous world assuming,
There are no souls known to be noble.