Thursday, December 9, 2010

FIght Club - poem

A dark, musty room.
Here dreams and bones are broken.
To fight is Freedom.

Every Friday night
Sheep gather here. For tonight,
they will become wolves.

Crack. Crunch. Groan. Slap. Spurt.
Blood splashes on the hard floor
And flows in the cracks.

this melee is finished.
The lust for blood is still strong.
Next to fight, step up.

The combat rolls on.
These 'once a week warriors'
Alive only here.

They have left now,
The room grey, but for the blood.
The smell still lingers.

The room seems asleep.
The smells of fear, blood and sweat
Sink into the floor.

The stamping of feet
And slapping of fists on skin,
Forgotten for now

The sheep are now trapped,
Mindless drones until next week,
Wolves in their cages.

Fight Club awaits them.
Every Friday when night falls,
A musty room lives.



Told you I'd post it. INSPIRED by the movie Fight Club, but not actually about it

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