Death In the Catacombs
DEATH IN THE CATACOMBS
Beneath the gloom of Paris streets
where death's the only game to play;
the light of Heaven never meets
in time of night nor time of day;
down in the catacombs I roam
and here I call this dark my home.
This place is where my need runs free,
to search for souls lost to the dark
not caring if the likes of me
might lay in wait to leave my mark
upon their neck to reach their vein
before they even feel the pain.
The limestone seeps recycled vin
from life above that lets it pour
and what's not drained into the Seine
drips from our ceilings, evermore;
'tis here death's meaning is made new
and welcomed by the likes of you!
But I, and all the undeads flock
have made this place a place to live
where death's a time that we can mock
well knowing death can never give
an ending to the days we'd planned
unnumbered by the falling sand.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015
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