Last Dance

 “It is one of the considerable privileges of art that the horrible can be transformed, through artful expression, into beauty.” – Baudelaire

“Nothing burns like the cold.” – George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones 

 

sinkinginsociety

The tombstone, angled slightly askew,

tumbled out of bounds

with a weedy surround

Miss Daze stood, in wind her hair flew,

in tears from all the sound

coming from cold ground

Flames they shot, forked vehemence,

voice from grave beneath

a mouth without teeth

A door revealed, viewed with vengeance,

Swaying she was sure to be

chanting a nether decree

A demon red, he stood in great haste,

and with a beastly shove

grabbed Miss Daze from above

Sinister the dance, in smoky and hellish taste,

Passion’s rigor is restored

Forcing open Deaths door