The Ballet

The music has come.
They dance onto the stage.
A rhythmic memory, they come out to play.
That swaying, decaying, motion.
Portrayed by the eternal slave.

They move to the tune,
Of sweet lies like aromatic roses.
The pink lace of the lovely forlorn,
Torn to pieces at whim from the myriad of thorns.
Those sweet, sweet mannequins of tragic romance.
The dance is never quite the same after one's first glance.

---
It was a cold, rainy night some time in 1816.
The seats were all filled,
Their oblivious stares eat into the souls of the dancers,
As though the crowds minds were reaching,
Into the depths of the cold and curious few.
Forcing their thoughts as though they played the commanding tune.
No words could describe the controlling hand by which the dancers were propelled.
All they heard was that whimsical tune,
Trapped in themselves as their dance carried through.
---

There eyes were once warm like a summer sun,
Their flesh filled with warmth like a fire undone.
But their eyes now have no sight, no warmth,
The eyes of the dancers are still in pools around their cheeks.
Their limbs are so cold, so stiff, and they wreak;
As though they'd been sealed in a tomb for much longer than a week.
Breathing out sulfur, though they take nothing in.
Though the night is long gone, they remain,
And they can never win.

The music has expired,
But it plays on an endless loop through their minds.
The room is empty,
But on the stage one still finds,
Them dancing, to that glorified tune.
Those swaying, decaying motions,
As the unseen pulls their strings.

Smell their souls that rot in the timbers,
See the maggots feast on thin air, until the dancers appear.
They can still be seen dancing,
Skeletons of the moon.
The dead who sit and watch still hear,
That shocking beauty of their master,
That blood-curdling tune.