They gather in the tunnel, their nest built on centuries of grime, stumbling drunks and rejoicing. Echoes of Victory Day celebrations still lingering in corners, the ghosts of men, fists raised in anger for justice and a place to call their own.
They settle in the darkness waiting for the low hum and rhythm to quicken their pulse; and when it finally roars in one powerful and controlled explosion, their bodies unfurl — ready to feed.
I am lost in a liquid mass
Peering through the eyes of King Cobra.