The Crackle Remained (a poem)

As the fire grew, larger and larger, and the puppets rose from their seated positions. As the weather outside turned further and further from calm, painting everything near in a heavy drip. As screams built to a deafening crescendo; a torturous echo of agony.

Yes, as the present faded to the past and the ashes scattered wide, there was an increased darkness that only the devils of man could bare.

And, as the scene closed and the Master looked on, there was a near silence forming.

The crackle remained.