Danse Macabre

Winds stir as the grave keeper approaches his bench, bow in hand, string in the other.

Eve’s turning has come, as the clouds above him reveal the moonlight chandelier;

he rosins up the bow and pulls it across the cords.

The vile hiss of the violin echoes a tune into the cemetery, and quiet is soon replaced

with moans of life.

Midnight’s hollow grasp tightens, as the cold soil turns and toils with decay.

Flails of dirt and death are scraped away and thrown as corpses learn to stand;

the freedom from lights; chains broken and coffins opened, as flesh trots the earth once again.

The guests of the next world arrive from their holes, drawn forward to the stench of the other.

Feet shuffle on beat of the metronome as a rotten waltz commences in the graveyard masquerade.

Dancers adorn lost limbs and bloodied garb, as they begin to frolic through the fray,

whilst dangling guts and half eaten flesh decorate the gala.

The dance continues around and around, a vat of carcasses stir to the sound;

propelling the crowd to switch their partners,

The ladies curtsy and  gentlemen bowed,

They continue to the violin’s song.

Pace quickens and the dancers’ skins sway in turn, revealing bone and rotten muscle,

now black meat, peppered with maggots.

What were shells of the past, now rip apart and fall to the ground below,

revealing skeletal waltzers; the blessed, accursed undead.

Bones embraces each other and clatter the ancient love between the dead,

as the bow slowly begin to calm the strings.

The skeletons part ways, once again leaving the world they tread ; resting in beds of dirt and wood.

The song has ended, instruments hushed, and silence returns to the gravestones;

the musician stands and approaches what remains of his work:

the succulent flesh, red and ripe.

The keeper kneels and picks up his prize;

raising it to his lips and biting into the moist, burgundy tissue.

His smile drains the blood from his mouth as it drips down his chin,

painting the soil beneath him,

now a bloody cocktail of dance and death;

The Danse Macabre.

Published by: goldylukes

Some people call me the space cowboy yeah Some call me the gangster of love Some people call me Maurice Cause' I speak of the pompitous of love

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One thought on “Danse Macabre”

  1. This was literary perfection! (And I promise I’m not biased just because ‘The Danse Macabre’ has been my favourite classical song since grade six.)

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