Into The Belly Of The Beast, a trip on the subway

Down deep dank halls, 'twixt metal bars

Pass the morning sacrifices 

unaware of their peril, they wait; listening to the sound of guitars

played by zombies that wander with their glazed eyes

and their empty words, and their smoky cigars

Calming, pacifying, their wraith-like bodies mingling

Their voices a silent hum that soothes the hurt, the scars

As the sacrifices wait for their turn

and breathe the smells of underground, of smoke and urine and dark,

and stare at the walls, of slime and graffiti and dirt,

and huddle in groups, without breathing a single remark;

Only watching, waiting, listening for the mournful cry

that will signal the zombies to disembark

and fade into the shadows, leaving only the ones who wait

for the soulful moan, the light, the ominous sparks

that draw their eyes like moths to a flame,

entrancing, entrapping, hypnotizing, no thoughts to run or make war

only quiet anticipation, a tense atmosphere building up around them

as they stay, riveted as the glinting eye approaches, reaching forward

into the dense darkness of the tunnel where the souls are gathered,

awating their turn to take the leap, as they blindly disregard

the grinding screech as the creature's limbs protest its abrupt stop

and the crushing jaws that creak open to accept them, whilst they walk forward without guard

Shoving to be first to take the trip, the leap

Into the belly of the beast.