The Dance

Have you ever seen the face of death?

Have you dared lay eyes on forever rest?

On that blood raged face of gushing pores?

Of children screaming "no more, no more"?

I have.

It's like a dance,

In a cold dark room;

And with just one glance,

You can see the blood colored due,

As it drips off the floor.

Then the whole room freezes,

As the strike of their doom

Echo's in the hall.

No one screams,

In fear they might fall;

Fall down in a bed of cold, moist, darkness,

Of worms and dirt;

With only a rectangular box to warm them.

And so they dance.

With their hidden faces;

Leaving behind them all traces,

Of what lurks beyond the wall.

But it's there.

They know.

That's why they play their rolls;

And no one dare goes

Beyond the bolted door.

So they dance,

And they play;

They sing and act gay.

To hide the fear on their face;

To hide the reason they built this place.

This stone monument;

This cage of safety,

Of pure things and protection.

That they have filled,

With nothing but pure things.

Things they have hidden

Safe from the world.

Or have they?

Perhaps they have built their own tomb,

In hopes it would protect them,

Protect them from their doom…

And so they dance.