Melodrama
The Gothic Quest had best
Not seek to really wrest
The truth from underneath
Time’s tightly shrouded sheath.
Across each quaint old tale
Is stretched a taut black veil
To cloak the primal dread
Hinted at, not said.
The creaking castle door—
The trap door in the floor—
Mere stage props in your soul:
Each man has a start.
There you play your part.
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