Danse Macabre.
A Poem by Cameron Smith.
The sun sets o'er the barren moors,
Grave-mist flows through sepulcher doors.
Skeletal hands emerge from soil,
The fog continues to pulse and roil.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
What words to stop them might be said.
The death-mist creeps through boneyards bleak,
Awakening horrors of which none speak.
Death flies above on silent wings,
As on the ground creep wicked things.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
Where words to stop them might be read.
The fog, it strikes Antonio Head,
And now the sea gives up her dead!
Seaweed hangs in place of hair,
And rusty swords leave scabbards bare.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
By what ancient evil they are led.
The hooded figures gather round
Darkest doctrines to expound,
For by their hands the dead do walk,
And living beings gleeful stalk.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
How to slay the living dead.
The necromancers, robed and cowled,
Dwell in places dark, befouled.
Evil spells they craft this night,
Spells of terror and of fright.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
By what darkest shadow they are bred.
From cauldron black, this fog does flow,
Viscous, thick, deathly slow.
Shadows creep along the ground,
Whilst banshees make a wailing sound.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
Why horrid thoughts lurk in the head.
The bats themselves, they flee in fright,
As skeletal armies stalk the night.
The living cower beneath the bed,
For this night is of the dead.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
What makes them blood like water shed.
Their murder done, their bloodlust sated,
They return to those that them awaited.
Revenge now gained, they rest their bones;
Sleeping sound 'neath graven stones.
The roiling fog awakes the dead,
Who stain their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, for none now know
What to do, but stay in bed.
The child awoke from nightmares deep,
And cleared his eyes of groggy sleep.
The nightmare ebbed with break of dawn.
The night of death had come and gone.
The roiling fog awoke the dead,
Who stained their bony fingers red
With lifeblood's flow, but now we know
'Twas but a vision in his head!