The Feast of Shadows

Beneath the rafters cracked and bare,

 A silence drips through stagnant air.

 The clock has choked upon its chime,

 And corpses dance in broken time.

The walls are dressed in rotting lace,

 Each mirror hides a hollow face.

 A candle sputters, thin and frail,

 It's a mourner, wan and pale.

The floorboards groan, a ghastly choir,

 As whispers crawl like threads of a fine wire.

 The dark red velvet drapes, with mildew stains on the surface,

 Remember the screams the night contained.

A banquet waits, its table spread.

 With rusted silver, dust, and looming dread.

 The guests are bones in dark velvet gowns,

 Their laughter stitched from coffin sounds.

So drink, dear soul, the crimson deep,

 The feast is yours, the night won't sleep.

 For Death extends her a withered hand—

 And bids you join her shadowed band.