Through The Wringer Poem by Cole Severns

Blind wanderer deep in foul territory.
The hazardous lonesome desire.
Seeking the reciprocal.
Satisfaction of a basic need.

Vulnerability secreted like blood oozing into waters of starving sharks.
Unsuspecting supply for vile subspecies.
The vampires, the tyrants, the cannibals, the parasites.

Deep lacerations from razor-sharp barbs.
Staggering inebriated around their hair-triggered land mines.
Horrid agony inflicted by medieval torture.
Desperate pleas for mercy.

The cold, blackened heart of nemeses yielding sadistic motives.
Burned and gassed.
Slowly impaled by twisting bayonets.
Remaining shrapnel lodged deep into the flesh.

Disfigurement.
Deformity.
Paralysis.
Disintegrated ego in microscopic pieces.

Mind saturated and submersed in post traumatic stress.
The tattered carcass.
Left for dead.
Entrails unraveled, left to decompose.
Rancid, putrid organs exposed.
Picked clean by vultures, rodents, maggots.

Tragic end.
Nothing left.
Dead silence.
Unrecognizable, unidentifiable.
An obscured, distant memory.