The Danse Macabre

The dead are speaking, and I hear them.
Soft, but very clear.
Harbingers of buried pain,
And unacknowledged fear.

"Come," they whisper, "come with us,
Inhale the gloom of ages.
Gloom of tomb and mystery,
of loss and anguished rages."

"Glaze your memory with tears,
Inject your heart with bile,
But don't begrudge the danse macabre;
It is a human trial."

The siren call, that siren sings,
A lure never ignored,
Despite a gaunt and death-green face
That every soul abhorred.

No matter if I freeze my mind,
And whitewash every tale,
I cannot keep my human feet
From walking on that trail.

So glaze my memory with tears,
Inject my heart with bile,
I won't begrudge the danse macabre;
It is a human trial.

I let the specters take my hand,
And guide by frozen finger.
I stand upon the shadowed graves,
And feel the sorrows linger.

I watch them turn and take a bow,
And, each one in their places,
Pantomime their histories
With solemn faded faces.

It glazed my memory with tears,
And filled my heart with bile,
But still I watched the danse macabre;
It is my human trial.

The dead are speaking quietly,
I tune my mind to listen.
Hold a salve against my heart,
And let the memories glisten.