by Jeffrey T. Bender
Upon the next night's darkened hour,
Surprised by the stench of death's sweet sour,
burst an organized group of town militia,
to discover the symptoms of the lord's dementia.
A brightly tinted, green foyer
invited their eyes to a harsh display.
Dancing across the gilded walls,
an angry red slash crawled down the halls.
With the twisted torment of a silent scream,
and the endless fall in a night's bad dream,
the militia began their drawn out search.
Unknowingly they walked,
toward death's cold perch.
Through the apartments they made their way
To find the dead in their Riga Morte.
Realizing this was the red death,
The leader out cried "Coudate!"
And the militia turned, to find the one,
from which the infliction had begun.
Blankly staring he stumbled toward them.
And the leader came forth, his expression grim,
to take hold of the sick one by the flesh of his face.
And ever so willing be it
that which inflicts the doomed;
did the boiled masque slip
and come away red festooned.
And alas, yet again, out rang the ominous tolling of that cursed clock!
Twelve sorrowful counts it tolled, it tolled.
Marking the inevitable end that the militia was bestowed.
As though contained within one head,
in bloody silence they thus wept.
A new sacrifice to the dancing death bed.
Rigidly ever after, the militia slept.
Last updated September 08, 2011