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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.

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