We lost touch with our friends
in the dark hallways
and made enemies with shadows
as they stifled out the candlelight,
pallid and creeping from corners
drenched in the sweat and tears
of the women taken from the meat hooks
and carted away to the Dark Room.

The only rule of the BrassWorks is:
Painted in gold lettering
embossed on black walls,
the contrast burns our retinas
and cataracts our comatose visages.
Baby-talk crawling under the door
to the Dark Room
and we break the rule.

A man in a brown cagoule,
being orally stimulated
by an angel with her wings plucked,
reaches up to the ceiling and stretches,
his body elongating beyond reasonable proportions,
his spine cracking and fingers snapping
as his arms reach higher
and his legs grow like wild-grass in summer's height.
His jaw drops,
his mouth agape,
screeching static.

We lost touch with our inhibitions
when we allowed ourselves to venture
into the BrassWorks and her horrific interior.
We became who we dreamed of being,
Creators and Destroyers and Scientists.
The Dark Room is the last bastion of sanity
simply because primal urges have yet to be overcome
by our need to become more than monsters,
to become delusions of our own nightmares.
The sign on the front gate seems somewhat apt now,
as we head deeper into these infernal innards: