Hinges squeal in ghastly protest,
disuse-dry and dark with rust;
Battered by the brittle beating 
fists of figures fraught with lust.

That which throws its aching body
aimlessly about the floor,
and wrenches at the weathered woodwork labeled only as “the door”

Old as time and isolated,
such a secret shan’t be found
unless the searcher seeks to drag
the Damaged up from underground

Which in their harsh and howling heartache, 
failed to heed the warning call, 
and once again were captured, quelled,
and cast against the chamber wall.

So dark, decrepit, dim-lit hallways 
hear the heaves of strangled breath, 
and bear their only witness as
the worn out Wanting wails its death.

Kept concealed in stark confinement,
stifling it’s sickly sway
each anguished, empty echo;
evidence 
of why it’s locked away.