(N.B. In honor of Poe's Masque of the Red Death)

Five months have gone past,
While the subjects breathe their last
And their brave guards of grief fast;
Neither hurting nor aghast.
And so the die is cast.

As the weak wails die down,
Dancers waltz around and around,
Forgetting Death's unyielding dominance,
Through rooms 7; the last without Providence.

Tick-tock, Tick-Tock.
Death bypasses iron lock,
Smiles only to scare and mock
His gay and secluded flock;
His heart, like theirs, cold rock.

The pendulum strikes ominous 12;
The bloody lord appears to claim
His thousand of noble fame.
So to Hades the souls delve,
And out flickers the flame.