The Court of the Twisted Dead

In the court of the Queen, With her eyes to the ground, Who is shrouded in darkness And silence profound With her skeletal hands, Wrapped in gossamer skin, Rest on smoothed out mahogany, And gleam through the dim. There is nothing to hear, Not a wail or scream, But the moaning, the groaning Is easily seen. For the twisted, the twisted, The warped wretched dead Hang from tendons and muscles, Some but by a thread. With their mouths wrenched wide open, And fingers like claws, And the drained empty bodies She loathes and abhors, In a masque, a charade Of their past living days; Some dancing, some lancing, In dead, frozen plays. And their eye sockets drip, As terror drove wide Of the Queen and her smile As she welcomed their slide. For her lank heavy hair Is blacker than night, But her eyes, her cruel eyes Shine with crimson red light. And her dusty bones squeal As she raises her head And stretches parched lips To welcome the dead. For her throne in the centre Of the moribund scene Entices for all That her beauty had been, Though the sheen from her skin Is feeble, but all That caresses the shadows Of the cavernous hall. Clouds of incense and musk Swirling aimlessly round Mask the biting of rotten And wet stony ground. The stillness and silence, Macabre tableau, Leans out and away From her skins eerie glow. The ribs of the courtiers Defined, stomachs sunk, Their waxy skin stretched As they wait for the thunk, The echoing thunk Of a knock on the door, While the worm-ridden wood Showers dust on the floor. Then the life empty hall, And the grey twisted forms, Turn their thoughts to the Queen, As all are her pawns. With a smile on her lips, And her eyes burning red, As she waits for you, waits for you, Waits for your head.