Poem One-Hundred-Seventy-Six

What a good idea is has been to let them in...
Have they finally discovered the unlocked front door?
Yearning to speak to the inhabitants inside this house?

Any old curl of fingers will do to turn a handle;
Radio signals tapping into the brain stem:
Enemy forces are walking down the sidewalks;

Yesterday was that day,
One of their own caught one of us;
Understanding the lines between certain failure;

Huddling down in the dark old cellar,
Incisors snapping away at each other,
Daring the other to make a sound,
Including those wailing babes;
Nothing can be found,
Going down those creaky wooden stairs;

Years back, the sun went black,
Outside-air glowed,
Underground was formed;
Riots broke out among the desperate,
Settling the conflict with fire,
Every day was a new time to walk up those stairs,
Leave the safety of the tunnels behind,
Find themselves in the desolate Aboveground;

Inside the mines, children cried;
Nursing in the dark;

Threats from within the hives rose up,
Hails of stone crushed seedling dreams,
Earth split and roared;

Closer and closer the enemy strode,
Looking for any unlatched door or home;
Once they're inside,
Surely the victim's'll die;
Eternally questioning,
Twice guessing, wondering, desperate?